


Thirty-One Days Hath October

by venea_taur



Series: Windy City Musketeers [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), Panic Attack, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Self-Harm/Suicide, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, references to massacre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 06:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 48,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12337647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venea_taur/pseuds/venea_taur
Summary: Story 1: On their knees: d'Artagnan invites First Minister Aramis to demonstrate his renowned shooting skills for the new cadets. Is Aramis up to the challenge?Story 2: The quartet is on a long car ride home when Aramis gets sick. Modern AUStory 3: d'Artagnan and Aramis are stuck in a small town jail cell after getting caught up in a bar fight. Aramis can't quite remember what's going on. ModernAUThe rest of the stories will be summarized inside.Series of stories written for the Whumptober Challenge over on Tumblr. Tags will be added as stories are added.





	1. Once a Musketeer...

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in between writing projects so I decided to take part in the Whumptober challenge on Tumblr. It's a rather fun challenge and if you're looking for some writing ideas, you might want to check it out (@whumpreads is the creator of the prompts). I thought I'd post them here because I've quite enjoyed writing them.
> 
> And apologies for the title. I couldn't think of anything better.

When d’Artagnan asks for him to come down to the Garrison for a musket demonstration, Aramis doesn’t hesitate in agreeing. Cooped up for months in the Palace, meeting with all types of officials about the state of the country, Aramis is itching to do something that comes as easy as breathing to him. It has been years since he routinely carried a musket, but his skill has not diminished. Not as his beard grew gray and long hair became speckled with white.

He enters the Garrison seeing the recruits, the cadets, and full Musketeers far younger than he remembered. A byproduct of aging: every year the faces seemed younger, more innocent, more difficult to send to war.

And d’Artagnan, the lad, Captain now of the Musketeers, doesn’t seem to age. He greets Aramis warmly, with a familiar, comforting hug. It has been far too long since Aramis has seen any of his brothers.

“Cadets, soldiers,” d’Artagnan calls out, turning to face the restless lines of men. Some things never change, Aramis mused. “This is First Minister Aramis, once a Musketeer…”

“Always a Musketeer,” Aramis interrupts him not very quietly. The men chuckle.

“Of course.” d’Artagnan nods his head in concession, a smile playing at his lips. “I simply mean to say that it has been years since you were actively in the regiment.”

“You make it sound like I’ve been sent out to pasture, having seen my better days long gone. Will my bones creak if I move too fast?”

Aramis is pleased with the laughter. This is a far easier audience than a room of tight-lipped officials. And d’Artagnan has made it no less easy to tease him over the years.

“If you are done, Minister,” d’Artagnan says in an equally playful tone, emphasizing Aramis’ title in a way that he knows will annoy the older man.

Aramis nods.

“Aramis has come to give a lesson and a demonstration in shooting. He is known across the country for his aim with a musket.” d’Artagnan turns to Aramis. “Shall we?”

“After you.” Aramis gives a slight bow and d’Artagnan holds back a sigh. Nothing has changed about the older man, not his smile nor his playfulness. How many headaches did it give them all those years ago?

Back at the range, Aramis easily gives his lesson about proper care for your rifle and musket. Such speaking has always come easily to him and he thinks nothing of the rapt attention as he picks up his favorite musket. It is not the same one the served him all those years ago but it was a gift from Porthos and has been used only at the range.

It is only when he kneels to aim that he becomes aware of a problem. He blinks his eyes, hoping that might clear it up. It hasn’t. He forces himself to breathe, to put out of his mind the watching, anxious, expectant eyes of each and every soldier, the pride d’Artagnan has in him.

Nothing.

Try as he might his hand will not remain still long enough for him to take aim. Instead, it shakes like an old man’s.

His pride refuses to let him pull the trigger. His shot will hit the board, but just barely. More than his own pride, the respect he has for how d’Artagnan has managed the Garrison and the respect he’s brought back to the Musketeers refuses to let him fire. Instead, he stands, blowing out the fuse.

“I’m sure you can figure out the rest from there, lads,” he tells them with a forced smile. “Good luck and d’Artagnan, let me know how they’re faring.”

He leaves without further word, without looking back to see the startled face of d’Artagnan quickly organize his men into their orders for the day. He doesn’t see d’Artagnan look longingly at him, fighting the youthful urge to run after his brother. Locked away in his study at the Palace, ignoring all knocks from servants and even Anne, he stares at unfamiliar hands. They are wrinkled, speckled with the beginning of age spots, and gnarled by years of soldiering. These are not his hands. They are the hands of his grandfather, of an old man, wizened by years of hard truths. Even now there is a tell-tale shake, the unsurity of movement brought by advancing age. It was not there last night, that he swears. But it that the truth?

Nature, it seems has done what man and country couldn’t for all they have tried during his long years. He may still have his charm and wit, but he is no longer the Musketeer he once was. Never again does he attempt to fire a gun. He accepts his bodyguards with such ease that everyone thinks him ill. He shakes them off with a fake smile that he hopes will one day be real again.

And never once does he step foot in the Garrison again.


	2. The Longeset Car Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: Bag over head
> 
> Modern AU The quartet is on a long car ride home when Aramis gets sick.

Athos sighs at the sound of Aramis’ wet, hacking cough and pushes the man’s head closer to the paper sack. When the latest coughing fit is done, Aramis spits and then leans back with a groan. He rests his head against the back of the seat but keeps the paper sack close, gripping it tightly.

“How’re you feeling,” Porthos asks from the driver’s seat. He looks at Aramis from the rearview mirror; he looks no worse than before but no better. His face is pale, sweating from the effort of keeping his nausea at bay, and tired.

“How long… until we… get there?” Aramis swallows against the rising nausea speaking brings, his concentration divided.

“Forty minutes,” d’Artagnan answers, worry clear in his voice.

Aramis shifts and groans before, second later, leaning forward, nearly throwing his head into the sack, as his stomach tries to expel everything it contains. He feels Athos put a comforting hand on his back as the coughing continues.

It’s rare that he gets sick and when he does it’s always both inconvenient and hard. This time it happened on their way back home after a week-long conference. When the vomiting began in earnest they’d just hit a stretch of interstate with no rest stops or towns for seventy miles.

Athos, meanwhile, is hoping that the younger man doesn’t throw up. This is the last bag they have. Aramis has already thrown up in two bags, which are carefully stashed in a large plastic bag Porthos was more than glad to sacrifice to get rid of the smell, and stowed in the trunk. But he’s not sure that Aramis will make it. He’s looking and sounding worse as the miles dwindle down.

Perhaps what is worse is that they have no medical supplies, no medication or thermometer, though Athos hardly needs one to know that Aramis is burning up. Hand still on Aramis’ back, he leans forward to quietly speak with the other two.

“Is there no shortcut?”

“That bad,” Porthos asks, fighting the desire to glance back.

“Like the flu of 2015.”

Porthos grimaces at the memory and picks up the speed a bit.

“The flu of 2015?” d’Artagnan looks between the two of them.

“Later,” Porthos says curtly. “Find us a shorter route or a town with a decent motel.”

d’Artagnan nods, ignoring the terseness, and starts searching.

Athos notices that Aramis’ latest fit seems to be ending, the hacking less frequent and his body less tense.

“How bad is it,” he asks, leaning as close to the ill man as he dares.

“Bad,” he says breathlessly, head still down. He doesn’t trust his body at the moment as his stomach is still churning madly.

“A little more information, please,” Athos says in his usual gentle, sardonic tone.

Aramis is about to turn his head to glare when the desire to throw up returns and he loses what he hopes is the last of the contents of his stomach. There is nothing pleasant about the process from the stomach convulsions to the acid roiling up his throat to the bitter, stale aftertaste. After he’s done, he’s spent, sagging weakly from the effort.

“Nope, I don’t think you want to do that.” Athos gently pulls his head back when he finishes.

“Huh?” He’s tired, weak, and aches from his stomach to his throat.

“Sticking your head in that bag is not going to help you right now,” Athos says with a tired smile. “In fact, let me take it and I’ll add it to your collection.”

The bag gone from his grasp, Aramis leans back, head resting against the cool window, waiting for the car to stop, hoping that his nausea is done. It’s not, but with much moaning and groaning and some dangerously close calls, he makes it to the small town d’Artagnan’s found without vomiting again. The motel is dated, but clean. More importantly, however, it has a bathroom and a bed.

With Athos looking after Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan go to get supplies. Athos isn’t sure how it happened, but whenever Aramis is sick, he prefers Athos to look after him over Porthos. And it works because Aramis does everything Athos asks without complaint, to the best of his ability.

So, when he wants him to get off the cool tile floor and change into sweats, Aramis moans at the thought of moving but does so and Athos helps where needed because the last thing they need is an ill Aramis with a concussion. He’s not sure there’s a hospital in this town.

He gets Aramis settled under the blankets, a trash can within reach, and sits back in a chair he’s pulled up close to the bed. Aramis isn’t asleep, but he’s certainly not fully aware.

“I wonder, ‘Mis, why it is you prefer me over Porthos when you’re ill. You have to know by now I have no bedside manner to speak of and little patience for dealing with all of this stuff. You’d really be better off with Porthos or even d’Artagnan, though the lad might be a little lost at first.”

“Like you,” Aramis says tiredly.

“I understand that but I don’t know why,” Athos answers absently.

“It’s obvious, Athos.” Porthos’ voice startles him and he turns to see him and d’Artagnan standing just inside the room each with a bag full of supplies. “Your gruffness is what he likes when he’s sick. He all but kicks me out when I’ve tried taking care of him, says I worry too much.”

“And you’re a better caretaker than you think,” d’Artagnan adds.


	3. A Reward for Good Behavior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Prompt: Jail Cell) d'Artagnan and Aramis are stuck in a small town jail cell after getting caught up in a bar fight. Aramis can't quite remember what's going on. (ModernAU)

Aramis doesn’t recall where he is but he does know that he’s asked d’Artagnan a few times. Probably more than a few based on the sigh he gets when he asks yet again.

“We’re in jail, Aramis,” d’Artagnan says with a heavy sigh. He can’t recall either how many times Aramis has asked. It’s annoying, but it’s not the man’s fault. He took a hard hit back at the bar and was unconscious through the police car ride, the booking, and at least the first hour of their time in the cell.

d’Artagnan has already called Athos with his one phone call, but the older man didn’t answer. He tried to get the police to let him use Aramis’ one call since there was no way the man would be conscious enough to use it, but they refused, disgruntled as they were for having to break up a bar fight in the early hours of the morning. Despite being officers themselves, there is no leeway given to them, not miles away from home with no badges on hand.

“Why’re we here?” That’s a new one, but it’s no less hazily asked than the previous.

“We were caught up in a bar fight.” d’Artagnan rested a hand on Aramis’ chest, hoping to keep him calm. The older man’s head was currently resting in his lap, the easiest way he’d found to make sure Aramis didn’t move it too much and aggravate his headache. d’Artagnan had arranged them so that the top bunk is blocking out the weak light in the cell from reaching Aramis, hoping it would help to ward off any further headache.

“Fight?… Call ‘thos.”

“I tried. He didn’t answer.” They’d all gone out together, but Athos and Porthos left early. Aramis stayed to keep d’Artagnan company.

“Try ‘orthos.”

“I can’t. They won’t let me call again.”

“Not nice.” There is the hint of a classic Aramis pout there.

“No, it’s not,” d’Artagnan agrees. The officers are most definitely not pleased with them. Whether it’s really because of the bar fight or because he’d tried to throw his weight around a bit by telling them they were officers back in Chicago, he’s not sure. They’re not abusive, but they also don’t give two fiddlesticks about what happens to them tonight.

“How’re you feeling,” d’Artagnan asks. The man’s face is pinched in pain and pale, eyes closed. Between that, the slurring and recurring loss of consciousness as well as memory loss, it’s clear that the concussion is not the minor one he was hoping for.

“Head hurts…. What happened? Don’t remember. Why’re we here?”

“You took a few hard hits to your head and crashed into a table. I’m not surprised that you don’t remember.”

“Call ‘thos.”

“I can’t. They won’t let me.”

“I can. Call ‘thos.” Aramis moves to stand, but a gentle firm hand on his chest keeps him from moving.

“You don’t even remember what’s happened.” d’Artagnan would like Aramis to make his call, but he’s not sure that he’ll remember to call Porthos, not Athos and based on the attitude he got when he asked for medical attention for Aramis, d’Artagnan isn’t willing to risk their only remaining call trusting the officers to help Aramis call the right person. For that matter, he’s not willing to let Aramis be alone with those officers.

“’thos will understand.”

That much d’Artagnan believes. If Aramis called confused, any one of them would come running, but that depended on them knowing where to come and Aramis calling the right person.

“That’s fine, ‘Mis. Athos will get the message when he wakes up and come get us in the morning.”

“No. Want to help.”

“Can you even stand?” In a minute d’Artagnan regrets issuing that challenge but Aramis can find a way to take nearly anything as a challenge.

Aramis mumbles something that might be a yes and moves to rise again, this time quicker than d’Artagnan can try to stop him. He heaves himself into a semi-sitting position, leaning harshly back on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, breathing heavy at the effort.

“Lay back down, Aramis. You’re injured.”

“Almost… there.” There’s another heave and Aramis is sitting, then abruptly falling off the cot. It’s only with d’Artagnan’s quick actions that Aramis doesn’t faceplant on the cold, dirty concrete floor, giving him a new headache and set of bruises. In response, Aramis sinks bonelessly back against the wall, sliding with little apparent purpose until he hits d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Just stay here, Aramis. Athos will come get us.”

“Want to help.”

“Then just stay put.”

“Wha’d we do?”

“Nothing. Just lie back down and rest.” None of this really was their fault. They’d just stepped up to the defense of some young women being harassed and got caught up in a fight when the first punch was thrown.

“Sorry.”

“Why?” d’Artagnan gently eases Aramis back down on the cot. He’s clearly still not anywhere near coherent because he doesn’t fight d’Artagnan.

“My fault.”

“It’s not your fault.” It hadn’t been. Aramis just happened to overhear what was going on, becoming increasingly distracted and irritated until they both decided to step in.

For minutes Aramis is silent, eyes closed, face tense with a headache and very likely the beginnings of nausea from the concussion.

“Where’re we.” Aramis cracks his eyes open and rolls his head to glance at d’Artagnan.

“In jail, ‘Mis,” d’Artagnan says with a sigh and the routine begins anew.


	4. All Tied Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis gets himself in a bit of a bind. Can his friends help get him sorted out? (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Noose
> 
> I'm not sure if this is even possible, but given that it's fan fiction and Aramis, I'm going to say it's feasible.

“What have you done to yourself,” Athos asks, entering Aramis’ room. The younger man is somewhat dressed for their recognition ceremony at the mayor’s office this evening. While he has his clothes on, the pants are unbuttoned with a belt through fewer than half of the loops, his dress shirt is untucked and the buttons horribly misbuttoned, and the collar is flipped up, bent and crushed in places from Aramis’ efforts. Perhaps the worst of everything is the horrible knot Aramis has managed to make of his tie. Though it’s around his neck, it is far too tight and he’s got both hands, somehow, caught up in knots.

Athos can’t help but laugh at the scene. Aramis’ face is red with aggravation and chest heaving from the effort of having dressed himself, or attempted to, while injured. Though, Athos thinks again, it might be that the tightness of the tie is impacting his ability to breathe comfortably.

“Stop it,” Aramis squeaks out. He’s ready to stamp a foot, but doing that would only make Athos laugh more. “Help me.”

“Why?” Athos takes a pause to breathe. “You’re doing a fantastic job yourself.” Athos can’t keep himself from chuckling.

“’thos…. Please.” This time Aramis’ voice is more strained, which prompts Athos into action. He first tries to loosen the tie around Aramis’ neck, but Aramis’ hands keep getting in the way. Looking at the hands, however, Athos can’t figure out where the tie begins and ends.

“I think it’s going to have to be cut, Aramis. I can’t figure out how to undo this mess.”

“No,” Aramis cries out, voice still strained.

“Aramis, I know this is your favorite tie, but I can’t make heads or tails of this mess.”

“Please.” Aramis gives him his sad puppy look, the one that usually doesn’t work on him but Aramis’ predicament makes it the only time, Athos hopes, it will. Someone in the house has to be immune to Aramis, after all.

As Athos goes back to working out the puzzle, Porthos chooses that moment to come in. Before he can get a full word out, he too breaks down laughing at the sight, this time of Aramis chaotically dressed and Athos struggling to untie the tie.

Aramis squawks in a quite un-Aramis way and stamps a foot.

“Porthos, please. I was just making some progress,” Athos says as the tie disappears from his hands when Aramis flops down to sit on the bed, a clear grimace on his face. His cracked and bruised ribs are far from healed.

“Just cut it.”

“He doesn’t want me to,” Athos says while Aramis gives Porthos a glare, which might be more effective if he did not have a blue casted arm caught in one set of knots in his tie and the other with most of the fingers splinted in another set of knots.

Porthos sighs and starts helping Athos to untangle and unknot Aramis.

“Why did you do this,” Porthos asks.

“Want’d t’ help,” Aramis says.

Porthos and Athos keep working, making little progress.

“Well, you’ve made a mess,” Porthos says, stepping back with a sigh. “We’re going to have to cut this off.”

“No.”

“We have to get going and the rest of you is a mess. I’ll buy you a new tie.”

Aramis squawks and pulls back, rolling back awkwardly on the bed as Porthos goes to find scissors.

“You can’t cut the tie, Porthos,” d’Artagnan says, standing in the doorway. “It was a gift from his dad shortly before he died.”

“I know, but we can’t get it off.” Porthos stops at the door.

“Let me work on it. You two finish finding him clothes to wear tonight.” d’Artagnan doesn’t give them a chance to argue as he climbs onto the bed next to Aramis and starts to work on the mess of Aramis’ tie. Athos and Porthos watch for a few seconds, rather annoyed at the luck the younger man is having in getting the first bit of mess undone before going to the closet to find clothes.

“Stop struggling, Aramis,” d’Artagnan says gently.

“Hard… to….” Aramis struggles to breathe between each word.

“Breathe,” d’Artagnan finishes, seeing the difficulty Aramis is having. “That’s because you’ve gotten this so tightly wound you’re just about strangling yourself.”

“Not… just… me.”

“I know, Porthos and Athos didn’t help either.” d’Artagnan gives Aramis a smile. He’s making progress. In fact, by the time Athos and Porthos return, he has the tie nearly undone and Aramis is breathing much easier. The tie, however, is horribly wrinkled and stretched.

“I want to wear that,” Aramis says, voice scratchy from his ordeal. He reaches out his hand with splinted fingers to grab at the tie.

“I was just going to iron it. You can’t wear it like it is right now.” d’Artagnan stands and leaves the room with the tie in hand to iron it out.

“Let’s get you ready,” Porthos says, working with Athos to get Aramis sitting up. Aramis squawks some as they work. They’re quick, but gentle, re-doing his shirt, tucking it in his pants, and buttoning the pants up, as well as fixing the belt. By the time they have his socks and shoes on, d’Artagnan is back with the tie. They give him the honors, as he had the patience to undo the mess, in tying the tie.

They are only thirty minutes late once they arrive. At the sight of the new injury, an angry red line circling his neck, from the tie, the others are forced to explain the situation to Treville, who can’t help but sigh and give Aramis a look. He is the only man who could get tangled so badly in a tie that he nearly hanged himself in the process.


	5. A Kitchen Mishap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis has a mishap in the kitchen. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Explosion

d’Artagnan is first alerted to something strange in the kitchen by a loud bang. Had it been him or Athos in the kitchen that would have been no surprise, but it’s Aramis, the baking wizard. So, he goes to investigate moving quicker after hearing a thump followed by a clang and cry of pain.

In the kitchen, on the counter, he finds the mixer, minus the bowl, and knocked over containers of flour, sugar, and other baking things Aramis used, with their contents strewn about the counters and down, what he can see from the end of the kitchen, the fronts of the cabinets. But no Aramis.

Continuing in the kitchen, he walks around the island, finding Aramis sitting, back against the cabinets, legs bent at the knees, with the missing bowl turned upside down on Aramis’ head.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan says, squatting down and moving to remove the mixing bowl. With it gone, Aramis shakes his head, wincing at what must be a headache thanks to the sturdy metal bowl. d’Artagnan can’t help the chuckle that turns into a full-blown laugh at the sight of dough stuck in clumps to Aramis’ hair, matting the usually unruly locks down. Chunks of batter have fallen down onto his face, mixing with the flour coating his face, neck, and shoulders.

It’s a far cry from Aramis the talented amateur baker and much more like that time d’Artagnan tried to help Athos make Aramis a birthday cake. Porthos came home to find them both and the kitchen a mess.

Now, Aramis hasn’t responded yet and has a rather startled look on his face.

“Aramis, you okay?”

“d’Art’nan?” Aramis looks over at the young man, confusion clear on his face.

“Are you okay?”

“What happen’d,” Aramis asks in a lost tone.

“That’s what I was wondering. From the looks of it, you had a baking accident.”

“What happened,” Aramis repeats, glancing around the kitchen, taking in the aftermath of his accident.

“Where are you hurt?”

“Hurt?” Aramis looks back at d’Artagnan.

“Yes, the mixing bowl was on your head. I assume you didn’t put in there yourself.” d’Artagnan does his best to visually examine Aramis for injuries. There’s nothing obvious, though the confusion might indicate a concussion, but he’s not as trained as Aramis in detecting concussions.

“It fell.”

“And how did you wind up on the floor?”

“I fell.”

“You fell? Did you trip? Were you dizzy?” d’Artagnan moves closer to check Aramis.

“Slipped, I think.”

“You slipped?”

“I think so.” Aramis pauses. d’Artagnan watches as Aramis looks around again, slowly examining his surroundings. Then he looks at d’Artagnan again, fixing him with an unsettlingly confused look. “What happened?”

“Let’s get you up. I think you need a trip to the ER.” d’Artagnan moves to help Aramis to his feet when there’s a loud pop in the area of the oven. That springs Aramis into action, though it’s nothing elegant. He’s unsteady and slips a few times, gripping the counter for balance until he gets to the oven. d’Artagnan’s right next to him, keeping him steady as well and grabbing potholders.

With the oven door open, the smell of burnt cake fills the air. Aramis reaches for it when d’Artagnan shoves him out of the way, grabbing the cake pan with the potholders. Burned hands are the last thing Aramis needs right now. Unfortunately, the movement is too much for Aramis, sending him straight back to the floor. Only his outstretched hands keep his head from colliding with the floor and giving him a worse concussion.

d’Artagnan takes care of the oven and then goes to check on Aramis. He hasn’t moved from his position but has resumed his confused examination of the kitchen.

“I’m going to get the car keys, Aramis. Why don’t you work on getting some of the dough out of your hair.” d’Artagnan hands him a towel. He takes it, still looking puzzled. d’Artagnan moves the hand with the towel to Aramis’ head, hoping he’ll get the picture. “I doubt you want to show up in the ER with dough in your hair. Not quite the ladies’ man, like that.” He gives Aramis an encouraging smile before running to shut off the TV and get what he’ll need to take Aramis to the ER.

When he’s back in the kitchen, he finds Aramis is slowly plucking tiny bits of dough from his hair, still looking around in confusion. At that, d’Artagnan drops the shoes he was going to try to put on the man as well as the jacket and goes back for a blanket. Then he gets Aramis to his feet.

“What happened?” Aramis has that same lost tone to the question.

“Let’s get going.” He tosses the blanket around Aramis’ shoulders, putting an end in each of the man’s hands and hopes that he’ll keep hold. It’s not terribly cold but Aramis complains about the cold easily.

“d’Artagnan?”

“Yes.” d’Artagnan slows in his efforts to guide Aramis out of the kitchen towards the backdoor and the car.

“What happened?”

“You had an accident.” They’re nearly out the door.

“Was I baking?”

“Yes, and you had an accident.”

“Did something hit me?”

“Yes, your mixing bowl.” They’re finally out the door. He pauses for a second to lock up, being sure to keep a firm hand on Aramis so he doesn’t wander off.

“That would hurt.”

“I imagine so.”

“What happened?”

“You had an accident in the kitchen.”

“But I was baking.”

“Yes. You had a baking accident.”

“But I’m Aramis.”

“Last I checked, yes.” They are so close to the car that d’Artagnan wants to just shove the man the next few feet, but he’s worried about his balance.

“What happened?”

It’s that moment when Athos and Porthos pull up in the driveway and d’Artagnan audibly sighs. Both men are laughing as they get out of the car.

“What happened,” Porthos asks as he’s the first to recover. While Athos isn’t as prone to laughing as the rest of them, when he does laugh, it takes forever for him to regain his composure.

“He had an accident in the kitchen,” d’Artagnan explains.

“An accident in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, he was mixing something and it looked like it exploded. The kitchen’s worse than him if you can believe it.”

“So, where’re you going?”

“ER. The mixing bowl landed on his head and he’s confused.”

“You sure he needs it? He’s probably shocked that he had a baking accident.”

“He’s not moving right, unsteady, and keeps asking the same question even when I tell him what happened.”

“What happened?” Aramis starts in again, tone the same as before.

“See? I’m sure he’s confused about how it happened, but that’s something more wrong.”

“Alright.” Porthos sighs. “Let’s get him in Athos’ car and to the ER.”

“He’s… not get…ing in… with all… that dough,” Athos says breathlessly, fighting the chuckles.

“I tried to get him to take it out, but he just sat there plucking it out in tidbits, staring and asking what happened.” D’Artagnan can’t help the whine as the frustration of dealing with Aramis reaches a peak, which sends Athos back into fits.

“d’Artagnan, you drive. Athos you’re shotgun. I’ll sit in the back with Aramis and keep the dough from getting everywhere.” Porthos takes Aramis from d’Artagnan and steers him to the backseat. Athos, still laughing, gets in the front seat and d’Artagnan in the driver’s. He’s just backing out when he hears Aramis speak again.

“P’thos? What happened?”

As Porthos starts up the familiar routine, Athos laughs harder and d’Artagnan wishes he’d taken the extra shift at work instead of had an easy night in.


	6. "I'm fine, really."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Prompt: Broken bone) The three panic when Aramis has a minor accident in his workshop. (modernAU)

Porthos is busy preparing lunch when he hears an awful clatter followed by a disturbing silence from the workshop. He pauses in what he’s doing and looks outside. Aramis has been working in the workshop this morning.

“Did you hear that,” Athos asks, poking his head in the kitchen, his concern clear.

“Yeah.” Porthos nods.

“Do you think?”

“I hope not, but probably.”

“I know. He’s been having a terrible week.”

“Let’s go then,” Porthos says. The two of them make their way, quickly, to the workshop. Because of the noise of Aramis’ tools, they had it placed near the back of the backyard. Aramis enjoyed the view as well because it looked out on the forest.

They pick up their pace when there’s still no noise or sign of Aramis after what has to be a minute after all of that noise. Entering the workshop, they find the air filled with sawdust and a shelving unit, one of the large wood ones Aramis built himself, fallen over, tools and all.

Underneath everything, Athos sees a bit of Aramis’ blue flannel shirt.

“Porthos, he’s under here.” Athos starts lifting up the shelving unit. Porthos nods and helps Athos. When they have it lifted about a foot, Aramis starts moving and making noise. The activity knocks some of the tools off of him and they clatter to the floor loudly, some hitting his rescuers’ feet. They give cries of pain and shock but keep moving, their focus on getting Aramis to safety. When the shelf is back upright, they return to finish clearing Aramis of the things that fell on him

“Hey, Aramis,” Porthos says. “How’re you feeling?”

“Hmm?” Aramis blinks a few times and looks up at Porthos.

“How’re you feeling?”

“The shelf fell on me.”

“I know. Don’t move too much. You probably broke a few bones at the very least.”

“Not to mention possible internal bleeding, bruising, and a concussion,” Athos adds with a glance at Porthos.

“The ambulance will be here shortly,” d’Artagnan says, jogging lightly into the workshop, phone in hand.

“Ambulance?” Aramis coughs from the dust and winces slightly.

“Where does it hurt,” Athos asks, moving to feel for injuries.

“I’m fine. Most I’ve done is gained some bruises and hurt my hand.” Aramis sighs at their protectiveness and tries to move.

“What did I say about not moving,” Porthos says with a well-practiced irritated sigh. He grabs one of Aramis’ hands, the one right next to him and examines it. Aramis snaps it out of his grasp and holds it close.

“Stop touching it. I’ve either dislocated or broken a couple of the fingers and your meddling is making it worse.” Aramis tries not to snap. He knows they’re trying to help but they’re bordering on being a nuisance.

“How does the other one look.” Porthos looks to Athos, who’s examining Aramis’ other hand.

“Nothing apparent. Maybe a hairline fracture?”

“Is that your expert opinion, Dr. Athos?” Aramis fixes him with a glare and snags his hand back. “I’m fine you three nutcases. Someone call the ambulance and tell them I don’t need it.”

It’s too late, however, as they hear the sirens coming down the street before turning silent. d’Artagnan runs out to flag them back to the workshop. Aramis uses the distraction as a chance to sit up. His back is stiff with the movement and his head has a slight ache, but he’s surprisingly alert.

“Stop moving, you fool,” Porthos admonishes.

“I’m a fool? What idiots called for an ambulance without even seeing if it was necessary. You three are dealing with it because I’m not,” Aramis says.

“Where’s our patient,” one of the paramedics says. Aramis groans as he recognizes the voices. It’s Becky and Adam, who are frequently on call when they’re dispatched to this house for emergencies, most of which seem to involve him.

“He had a wooden shelving unit fall on him. He’s been coughing and seems confused,” Porthos explains.

“Alright,” Becky says. “Let’s take a look.”

“I coughed because there’s dust in the air and I’m not confused,” Aramis says, but it’s too late. Becky and Adam are making short work of checking him out. He’s moved onto the gurney, his shirt torn open, with no regard for the buttons, lines for a heart monitor in place and soon hooked up. Then an oxygen mask put over his head, despite his protests of being fine. Next, there’s an IV with a saline drip going and a BP cuff inflating around his arm. It’s when the pulse-ox clip goes on one of his injured fingers that he screams, the action shifting the finger as it was done with little care.

Angry at not being listened to by any of the five people invading his workshop, he tears off the medical paraphernalia and gets off the gurney.

“You’re hurt, Aramis. What are you doing,” Porthos says.

“I’m fine save for some crazy friends and a few injured fingers.”

“You can’t be,” Athos says.

“Actually, he is. The readings we got says that everything’s fine. And if he’s moving around like this, he’s not severely injured,” Becky said.

“I recommend a trip to the ER but not by ambulance,” Adam adds.

“Sounds like a plan,” Aramis says, fixing his three friends with a look of annoyance. “Now you three can deal with Becky and Adam here. I’m going to call Constance to get her to take me to the ER.”

“Wait, why Constance,” d’Artagnan asks.

“Because she’s not a lunatic,” Aramis calls back as he walks out of the workshop muttering about mother hens and paramedics ruining favorite flannel shirts.


	7. In a Pickle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Prompt: Guilt) This time both Athos and Aramis end up in a bit of trouble thanks to their own guilt. Porthos and d'Artagnan are left to sort out the mess. (modernAU)

When Porthos walks into the house he immediately senses the tension in the air. Then he hears the noise from the kitchen, the awful clattering of someone doing something without much of a clue of what they're doing. It can only be Athos. d'Artagnan is right behind him and Aramis would never be so clumsy.

So, he goes to investigate and d'Artagnan follows wordlessly. They pick up their pace when they hear a loud crash and strangled cry from the kitchen. Then a loud curse from Aramis. Entering the kitchen, they find Athos flat on his back, the remains of a plate of food on and around him. Aramis, moving awkwardly with a casted arm, bandaged ankle, and a crutch, is trying to get to the floor while talking to Athos.

"You need… to relax, Athos. Take… a few… breaths," Aramis coaches, straining for breath from his efforts to help.

Athos mutters something that is likely a nasty curse, but with the grimacing and lowness of it, it's hard to know for certain.

"What happened here," Porthos asks, kneeling down near Athos' legs. Athos is situated awkwardly between the island and the counters.

d'Artagnan goes to help Aramis, but is seconds too late when his efforts give way and he slips to the ground with a loud smack, landing with his head near Athos'.

"Aramis," Porthos and d'Artagnan cry out. As much as Porthos wants to go see to Aramis, he keeps himself next to Athos, leaving d'Artagnan to deal with Aramis.

"Athos, what hurts?"

When there's no response, Porthos tried again.

"Come on, Athos. We need to know. Do you need us to call an ambulance?"

"He's hurt… his back," Aramis says, breathing rough and pained as he lies perpendicular to Athos.

"And how did he manage that?"

"He did it helping me in the house."

"And what happened to you that you needed help?"

"I'm still not really sure. One minute we were sparring, nothing out of the norm. Next thing I know, I'm on the ground, the hard ground not the mat, with Athos' looking down at me, on the phone, worry and panic clear in his tone and face," Aramis says.

"He," Athos begins, taking a deep breath as he works past the pain, "had an acci…dent during… sparring." Athos looks away, uncharacteristically nervous.

"How bad?"

"Sprained ankle, … broken arm, concussion, … and bruises, most of them to his abdomen."

"That's some accident," d'Artagnan says, eyes wide at the list of injuries.

"It was an accident," Athos insists, looking straight at Porthos now.

"Never doubted it," Porthos says.

"Nothing terrible, really," Aramis adds. "He won't stop doing things and take a rest himself." Aramis tries to point at Athos but instead manages to knock the man's head with his casted arm. Athos grumbles, turns his head, and winces at the pain from the movement.

"Maybe he just needed to work through his guilt." Porthos looks to Athos for confirmation. Athos gave a slight nod.

"Yeah, well, I needed him to stop," Aramis grinds out, frustrated.

"So, why aren't you resting, Aramis," Porthos asks.

"He needed to eat something to take his painkillers," Athos explains.

"And I told you I was fine with crackers or chips," Aramis says.

"You haven't eaten much all day. You know how you react to painkillers. You needed something more in your stomach before taking them."

"But you didn't need to go through all of this. You're hurt, too."

"From the same sparring match," d'Artagnan asks.

"No, the stuff they gave me in the ER left me out of it for hours and was still in me when we got back. I could hardly keep my balance, especially with just a single crutch." Aramis holds up his casted arm as explanation for the single crutch. "He tried to hide it, but I've been spending all day trying to get him to lie down and rest."

"What was he doing getting you something to eat," Porthos asks.

"He was sitting in the den when I woke with a startle. Old memories. The startle caught my injuries and the medicine wore off. I tried to hide it, knowing that he needed to rest, but he heard it and started getting me something so I could take the painkillers. I tried telling him some chips or crackers would be fine, but he insisted."

"So, what're you doing in here instead of resting?"

"Trying to help," Aramis answers, fully aware of how pathetic his voice sounds. "I knew he hurt himself and even on a good day, he's a terror in the kitchen. I was just trying to help him, make it easier."

Porthos looks from Aramis, noting the clear guilt on his face, to Athos, still pained, then to d'Artagnan and sighs.

"I think they were lucky we came home when we did, d'Artagnan," Porthos says at last.

"Why do you say that," Aramis asks.

"The way the two of you were going on your own guilt trips, you two'd've been halfway around the world hobbling along with your own injuries, doing everything to help the other without realizing that you were only making your own injuries worse."

"Should I call an ambulance," d'Artagnan asks.

"What do you think, Aramis?"

"How's the pain now, Athos," Aramis asks.

"Better," Athos says, voice strained with pain.

"Better enough to stand?"

"Umm," Athos hesitates.

"Call an ambulance, d'Artagnan," Aramis says.

"I can get up," Athos says quickly, voice tight. "Stop, d'Art…"

"d'Artagnan, call the ambulance," Porthos interrupts Athos. "He's not going to be able to shake this off. You might as well call it in for the both of them."

"I don't need an ambulance," Aramis protests, trying to sit up. The way his face pales at the movement and his inability to hold back a loud gasp of pain belie his claim.

"Another trip to the ER?" Porthos gives a slight smile. Aramis doesn't know that there was a pool going for how many trips he'd make to the ER this year and at the rate he was going, Porthos would win the sizeable pot.

Aramis glares at Porthos. Only Constance knew that Aramis knew about the pool, but she hadn't told him. He'd overheard some people talking about it. Aramis knew his track record and gave Constance money to bet on him. He didn't actively or passively try to land himself in the ER, but he knew his track record and was sure he would win. And all of the money was going to the local Boys and Girls Club.

"I'm fine though," Aramis adds.

"d'Artagnan, don't listen to them," Porthos says. "With you, we're better safe than sorry." He fixed Aramis with a pointed glare.

d'Artagnan moves to the other end of the kitchen to make the call. Athos sighs heavily, wincing at the pain from the movement.

"I'm sorry, Athos," Aramis says from his prone position. Their heads are nearly touching.

"Not your fault," Athos grinds out.

"If I hadn't been so doped up."

"And if I hadn't hurt you."

"If wishes were horses…" Porthos trails off with an exasperated sigh.


	8. The Armchair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Prompt: Scar) The only seat left for Aramis is the armchair and the others don't understand why he refuses to sit there. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that this one deals with PTSD, depression, and some references to self-harm/suicide. Sorry, it's not a happy one.

When Aramis enters the den, a bowl of popcorn in each hand, he finds the couch full with his friends, leaving the armchair empty. He hands a bowl to Porthos, hoping to get his attention long enough to make him realize one of them needs to move. He can’t sit in the armchair, not anymore.

Unfortunately, Porthos is too focused on the movie to notice. It’s not until several uncomfortable seconds later that d’Artagnan notices he’s still standing. d’Artagnan is still a cadet, having just joined them a few months ago, but he’s fit seamlessly within their trio. Unfortunately, he’s also taken Aramis’ seat.

“Something wrong, Aramis,” he asks.

“There’s nowhere to sit,” Aramis says. He’s fully aware of how childish that sounds, but he can’t sit in that armchair.

“Sure there is. There’s an arm chair right behind you.”

“I don’t sit there.” He’s quiet but firm.

“’Mis, just sit down. I know you normally sit here on the couch, but there’s nothing wrong with the armchair,” Porthos says, slightly exasperated.

“I don’t want to sit there,” Aramis almost hisses. Porthos, one of his closest friends, really should understand this.

“Aramis, please. Stop acting like a child,” Athos says, pausing the movie.

“I am not acting like a child.” Aramis’ voice is louder this time and even firmer.

“Let’s stop this,” d’Artagnan says, rising. “I’ll sit in the armchair and Aramis can have my seat.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Porthos says.

And Aramis, he’s ashamed at his relief, at the scene he caused, at having put d’Artagnan out. But even more, he’s disappointed in Athos and Porthos.

“Well, come take your seat,” Porthos says, irritation clear. Aramis does so reluctantly as d’Artagnan is settling into the armchair.

“Hey, there’s a tear here,” he says, picking up a pillow to get comfortable. The tear, now sewn up in familiar stitching, is on the back of the chair, easily hidden by a casual pillow.

“That was Aramis,” Porthos says easily.

Aramis gives Porthos a glare that the larger man misses as he continues talking.

“Our last night in the apartment before being kicked out, if I remember right.”

“Kicked out?” d’Artagnan looks to Aramis, who isn’t looking at any of them now. He’s staring at the floor, a slight shake in his body.

“Before we moved in here with Athos. He’d been trying to get us to move in for a bit, but Aramis was reluctant until he got us kicked out.”

d’Artagnan looks to Aramis, still staring at the floor.

“I’m sorry that I got us kicked out,” Aramis says quietly, the anger a clear undercurrent in his voice. “I am sorry that you had neighbors who didn’t understand the situation, who called the police at every scream of fear and cry of despair.” Aramis is standing now, making his way to the door, pausing when he gets there. “I am sorry that you had to deal with me back then. I did what I could to never burden either of you, especially you Porthos because you lived it every day with me. I tried, but I failed.”

Aramis doesn’t turn back to look at them. He calmly, so calmly it frightens them, walks up the stairs and closes the door with a snick of the handle that echoes in the silent house.

d’Artagnan looks at Porthos and Athos, waiting for an explanation. He’s worried about what he accidentally set off. His presence today, though welcome, disrupted the apparently precarious balance in the house. When Porthos prepares to go up to Aramis, Athos stops him.

“Not now. Give him some time.” Athos’ voice is soft, understanding.

“But…” Porthos looks up in the direction of Aramis’ room then at Athos.

“He won’t do anything. He promised us, remember? More than any of us, he’s a man of his word.”

“I know, but…”

“I know. Three years later and he’s been doing so well, but remember what the psychiatrist said, these illnesses will never completely disappear. They’ll come back when he’s least expecting it.”

Porthos nods and sits back down with a heavy sigh.

“Maybe I should go up and apologize before going,” d’Artagnan says after several moments of silence.

“No, you’re not apologizing,” Athos says.

“And you’re not going anywhere,” Porthos adds. “’Sides if anyone should leave, it should be me.”

“You know that’s not the answer, Porthos,” Athos says. “That’s only going to set off more problems.”

“I know, I know.” Porthos nods, feeling utterly helpless, hopeless, and as much a failure as Aramis. He’d made mistakes in talking with Aramis about his illnesses, but it had been a long time and he’d never been so callous in his remarks. He knew that none of it was Aramis’ fault.

“What happened, if I can ask?” d’Artagnan is hopeful that he might find out something, not because he wants a bit of gossip, but because he wants to be sure to never cause Aramis such hurt. He’s been with them three short months, but he’s known Aramis for longer, sort of. If it hadn’t been for Aramis, he would’ve been mugged, beaten up, and left on the streets. He wants to know more about the strange man who rescued him.

Athos and Porthos share a knowing look. They don’t know how d’Artagnan and Aramis met, but they did see the look of surprise and recognition in the young man’s face at the recruitment fair. And Aramis had never fought so hard for a candidate than he did for d’Artagnan. It seems safe to share some of Aramis’ history. Nothing detailed but enough to give some context.

“Before he joined the task force, when he was in the navy, Aramis was in a mission gone wrong. He was the only survivor. He nearly died from his injuries and then from the depression and PTSD. He was in a bad way when he joined the task force,” Porthos says.

“He seemed to have it under control, but soon it was clear he didn’t. He tried everything. But with the flashbacks and nightmares, he was eventually taken off active duty,” Athos explains.

“Sometimes he was violent, but more often he would wake up screaming, yelling then he was silent for hours, waiting, on edge, moving in and out of the past,” Porthos adds. “I told my neighbors he was a veteran dealing with PTSD, told our landlord, but it was too much. The police were out more times than I can count.” Porthos sighs at the memory of those chaotic days. As hard as they were on him, he knew it was worse for Aramis.

“And this tear,” d’Artagnan asks.

“I remember you calling me when that happened,” Athos says. “You weren’t sure what to do. Treville wasn’t answering and Aramis was so deep in a flashback he wasn’t speaking English.”

“Yeah.” Porthos looks down, embarrassed over having forgotten. “I think that was one of his first nights there. I didn’t know Aramis still had his blade with him. He was in the middle of a flashback and thought I was the enemy.”

“He didn’t…”

“No, he didn’t get me. I knew well enough to stay back. But he did catch the chair jumping over the back of it to find a better position. When he later realized what he’d done, he felt terrible. Sewed up the chair himself that night, hands shaking so bad he could barely keep hold of the needle, apologizing with every stitch even as I told him it wasn’t his fault. He gave me the knife then, made me lock it up somewhere he’d never be able to find it.”

“Why keep the chair?”

“It was a gift from Treville,” Athos says. “Aramis stayed with Treville and his family for a couple months and spent a lot of the first couple weeks in that chair. It was where I first met him, actually. He had it in the corner of the den, the perfect vantage point.”

“It was the one thing he wanted to bring when we moved in here. I thought he liked it.” Porthos looks to Athos.

“So did I. But he never does sit there,” Athos says.

“Huh. I never realized that, but you’re right.”

“So why keep it,” d’Artagnan asks.

“It’s a reminder.” The rough, familiar voice startles them. Looking up, they find Aramis standing in the doorway. His hair is a mess, clothes rumpled, and eyes rimmed with red. But he’s there.

“A reminder?”

“I’ve come a long way, as I’m sure they’ve explained.”

Athos and Porthos look away, guilty over having given away so much of Aramis’ private life, the part of him he kept hidden from all but the closest of friends.

“It’s fine. d’Artagnan has a right to know. He’s going to be a permanent member of our team one day and he needs to know what he’s getting himself into.”

“It’s not…” d’Artagnan starts to say.

“You have a right to know. I’m better now. Not like I used to be, but better than I was. But like all of us, I have bad days, except my bad days aren’t the norm.” He gives a casual shoulder shrug. “They’re not as bad as they used to be nor as frequent. But they happen. The longer you’re around, the more you’ll learn how to handle these days. I know it wasn’t easy on Porthos and Athos at first. Hell, I didn’t even know how to handle them. It’s a steep learning curve, but you have the benefit of being around people with experience if you decide to stick around.”

“I have no plans to leave. Doesn’t matter what you tell me.” d’Artagnan puts forth his most confident, encouraging tone.

“What if I told you Athos talks in his sleep and Porthos snores louder than a spring thunderstorm,” Aramis says with a small smile.

d’Artagnan looks to Athos and Porthos, waiting for them to deny it. Instead, they look away and d’Artagnan, though still confident that he’s staying, wonders what he’s gotten himself into.


	9. Red-Handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: self-inflicted): Athos rushes home to find d'Artagnan and Aramis have gotten themselves into a bit of a mess. (modernAU)

When Athos gets the garbled text from Aramis he’s not sure what to do, though his first instinct is to leave it be. Chances are Aramis is playing around with his phone again. Then when he gets a text from d’Artagnan a minute later asking for him to come home ASAP, he just about runs out of the store.

“In here,” he hears d’Artagnan call out the second he opens the back door. d’Artagnan, and likely Aramis, is in the kitchen. Athos slams the door shut and rushes down the short hallway into the kitchen. There he finds both men sitting on the floor in front of the oven. Aramis has a dazed look on his face and a towel, partly saturated with blood, wrapped around his right hand. That explains the gibberish text. Athos sighs and looks to d’Artagnan, who had a few cuts of his own, but nothing serious like Aramis. Instead, his major problem is a plastic jar on his right hand.

“What’s happened here,” Athos asks, kneeling in front of the two. He grabs a new kitchen towel to change the old one on Aramis’ hand. As he changes the towel, he examines the cut. It’s going to need stitches. “Why haven’t you called 911?”

d’Artagnan raises his jar covered hand as an explanation.

Athos quirks an eyebrow.

“Don’t need ambu’ance,” Aramis slurs, hissing as Athos squeezes the towel tighter.

“This needs stitching, even with your head knocked about you have to understand that.” Athos turns to Aramis to give him a serious look.

“You take us,” Aramis says as though it’s the easiest solution.

Athos sighs before giving in because it is the easiest solution.

“Alright, up on your feet then.”

d’Artagnan is the first to attempt to stand, which isn’t easy considering he has a plastic jar on one hand. Aramis, seconds later, makes an attempt of his own, clumsy though it is. And Athos is left wondering why they called him and not Porthos as he debates which of the younger men to help.

When Aramis plops back down woozily, Athos grabs d’Artagnan’s hand, the free one, and pulls him to his feet, holding him until he’s steady.

“Help me with this one.” Athos tosses a hand in Aramis’ direction. The man in question gives them a hazy glare that is lacking completely in the heat it is meant to convey.

Together, they get Aramis to his feet, d’Artagnan putting his jar covered hand underneath an armpit to get Aramis standing. As they support Aramis out to the car, Athos wishes Porthos would come home to help him deal with these two.

“You sit in the back with him and make sure he keeps pressure on that hand. With the blood loss and head injury, he’s going to be confused.”

d’Artagnan slides in first, buckling up. Then he helps Athos get Aramis in and buckled. Holding back another sigh at the sight of the two wounded men, Athos gets in the front and drives them to the ER.

Thanks to the cut on Aramis’ hand, they are taken right back to an exam room. The nurse tries to make d’Artagnan wait, but she’s new. One of the nurses who knows the quartet sees them and ushers the three back and puts Aramis and d’Artagnan in beds next to each other. The doctors and nurses have learned to do this to keep them calm. Separate them and they will cause trouble quicker than a bull in a china shop.

As the more serious of the two, Aramis is first seen to.

“Stop moving about, Aramis,” Athos scolds. He’s squirming as the nurse cleans his hand, making it difficult for the man to do his job.

“Hurts,” Aramis whines in such a way that Athos feels like he’s dealing with a child rather than a grown man.

“Well, that’s what happens when you… do whatever you did.” Athos trails off momentarily as he realizes he doesn’t quite know what happened that got these men in this predicament. He’s really gotten to a point that he finds it better to not ask, especially when it comes to d’Artagnan and Aramis.

“Trying to help.” Aramis sinks his head back on the pillow, trying to fight the urge to pull his hand away. He knows he should keep it steady, but hands are sensitive. Every little bit of cleaning pulls and stings at the cut. When a sudden jolt of pain makes him yelp and jump, unconsciously, pulling his hand from the nurse’s grasp, Athos sighs and walks away from the bed, counting to thirty because ten just doesn’t cut it with these two.

d’Artagnan leaves his bed to sit next to Aramis’ bed, on the opposite side of the nurse and Athos, giving him his free hand to squeeze. Aramis tries not to look grateful. Pain is something he’s used to, but between the placement of the cut and the wooziness from his injuries, he’s feeling less than capable of dealing with the pain.

“Sorry,” Aramis mutters and gives his hand back to the nurse. He’s used to dealing with these men, so he doesn’t bat an eye at the situation but he does go gentler with the cleaning.

“I’m sorry this happened, Aramis,” d’Artagnan says, guilt clear in his voice.

“It was an accident. Not your fault,” Aramis says. He looks to the younger man to distract himself from the work on his hand.

“If I’d been more careful though…”

“And if I’d not been so careless.”

“Would either of you care to enlighten me on what happened or are you going to keep speaking in riddles.” Athos barely has control on his anger. From the sounds of it, stupidity played a major role in this.

“You mean you don’t recognize this.” d’Artagnan holds up his hand with the jar on it.

“It’s a plastic jar,” Athos answers easily.

“It’s the lining to the cookie jar.”

It takes some five seconds for Athos to put it all together and then, instead of getting angry, he bends over, laughing uncontrollably at the image of d’Artagnan with his hand caught in the ceramic Cookie Monster jar that’d been a gift for Aramis from Treville’s kids last Christmas.

“Ho… how did ‘amis get… cut,” Athos asks between catching his breath.

“Tried to help him get it off by pulling it,” Aramis explains. He’d felt bad that d’Artagnan has quite literally gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar, reaching for the last of the chocolate crackles, Aramis’ favorite cookie. The young man panicked when Aramis walked in and got himself stuck.

“The jar broke, cut him, and he fell back into the counter,” d’Artagnan says.

Unfortunately, Athos can all too easily picture the scene and he’s sent into a deeper state of laughing.

And that is how Porthos finds them nearly a half hour later. Athos still laughing, not consistently, but still at random, irritating moments. Aramis lying on the bed with his hand being stitched and d’Artagnan, still with the plastic jar on his hand, lending his free hand to Aramis for comfort. When Porthos asks what happened, Athos, who’s had a grand total of five minutes without full-blown laughing, breaks out again, falling off his chair. Aramis and d’Artagnan give exasperated sighs and Porthos considers leaving them here and going back to enjoy a quiet evening at home.


	10. A Special Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: held at gunpoint): Aramis is on a special assignment when Athos calls to check in. (modernAU)

Aramis is hiding behind the couch when Athos calls. He answers quickly so as to not give his position away.

“How’re things going,” Athos asks after waiting several seconds for Aramis to say something.

“Fine,” Aramis says quietly. He looks around to see if he’s been found.

“Fine?”

“Things do go fine sometimes, Athos,” he just about hisses, irritated at the man’s lack of confidence in him. He may not know where his target is exactly, but things are still going okay.

“You do have a track record.”

“Treville wouldn’t’ve asked if he didn’t think I was capable.” Aramis is still recovering from a mission gone wrong and has just barely been cleared from bed rest.

“I know. I was simply concerned.”

“Hands up, mister,” a familiar voice says from behind Aramis.

“What’s going on,” Athos asks, hearing another voice. Aramis quickly wedges the phone between his ear and shoulder, turning about with his hands up, dropping the gun from his hand.

“I’m being held at gunpoint,” Aramis says with a slight lilt in his voice.

“Gunpoint?” Athos is nearly ready to call out the entire task force when it clicks. “You and Meg are playing with those water guns again, aren’t you?”

“It was her idea.”

“She’s six years old,” Athos deadpans.

“But she has Treville and Sarah’s genes.”

“And you were a Navy Seal.”

“They never taught us to resist six-year-olds.”

“You give up, ‘Mis,” Meg asks, priming her water gun.

“She’s going to shoot me, Athos,” Aramis says melodramatically.

“It might help.”

“Don’t you care, Athos?”

“It’s just water, Aramis. Make sure none it of hits anything important and you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sure it’s just water. She’s got this devilish glint in her eyes.”

“Then protect the furniture with your life.”

“Tell Porthos I’ll never forget him.”

“And d’Artagnan?” Athos decides to play along.

“Who?”

“He’ll be thrilled to be so forgettable.”

“And tell Constance she’s amazing.”

“She knows. You told her in the hospital when you were drugged up.”

“Tell her again.”

Athos listens as Aramis cries out while being hit with what Athos figures is just water. Meg knows better than to mix anything else in the super soakers. At some point, the phone drops and hits the ground with a soft clunk. Athos presumes that’s when Aramis has dramatically collapsed.

“Hi ‘thos,” Meg says cheerfully. She’s picked up the phone while Aramis lays on the floor.

“Hi, Meg,” Athos says. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” she says, coughing lightly. “Still sick.”

“Well, you’re sounding a lot better.” She’s been sick for the last couple days, staying home from school. When Treville and Sarah had to head out of town for a family emergency, the four of them volunteered to take care of the kids. It was perfect for Aramis because he couldn’t yet come back to work while recovering.

“Feeling better. It’s fun with ‘Mis.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s okay. He makes a lot of noises when he’s moving around like he hurts. We watched The Price is Right this morning and he slept on the couch.”

“So, did you, Meg,” Aramis retorts. Athos hears the exhaustion and pain in his voice. On his own, Aramis would’ve gotten going too quickly, but with Meg still getting over her cold and needing to take things slowly, it forces Aramis to slow down.

“Did not.”

“Did, too.”

“Did not.”

“Did, too.”

“Hey, Meg,” Athos interrupts their bickering.

“Yeah, ‘thos?”

“Keep up the good work in taking care of him. We’ll see you this evening.”

Athos listens to Aramis squawk a little more in the background about who’s taking care of whom before hanging up. They’d nearly lost Aramis this last time and it was music to his ears and a balm to his heart to hear Aramis so lively and talkative.


	11. A Worthy Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: self-sacrifice) Aramis sacrifices himself for someone he cares about. (canon setting)

Aramis doesn’t hear Constance enter his room because he is currently throwing up everything he’s ever eaten or considered eating. It’s only when he feels her familiar hand rubbing comforting circles on his back that he realizes she’s there. And while he wishes he were alone in his misery, he’s glad that Athos and Porthos thought to send for her while escorting an irate d’Artagnan out of the Garrison. Right now, the farther the lad is from Aramis, the better off Aramis is, even though he feels pretty awful right now.

“What happened,” Constance asks when his stomach allows him a few moments respite. He sits back on his legs, leaning weakly against the wall. While Porthos was forcibly ushering d’Artagnan out of his room, Athos had had enough time to help him out of his weapons and doublet. He’d already crawled over to the chamber pot. He was busy vomiting so he missed the worried look Athos threw him and anything he might have said before hurriedly leaving to help Porthos.

“I wound up on d’Artagnan’s bad side.” His stomach aches and churns and he hopes he might be near the end of vomiting. He can’t take much more of the violent retching.

“That much was clear, but I don’t understand how.”

It is no secret that the Gascon has a fiery temper, especially when it comes to Constance, but she can’t understand what would have caused such anger between him and Aramis. Of all the men she’s met, Aramis was the only one who’s never hit on her. In fact, he is the only man she’s friends with that her husband wholly approves of.

“I ate the pastries… he bought… for you,” Aramis says before another round of vomiting begins. It’s more violent than the last even though he brings up very little. Constance stays by him, her gentle hand on his back a warm reminder that he’s not alone.

She remains silent as his body rebels, knowing that any plastic encouragement wouldn’t be welcomed. When Aramis is done with the current wave, he leans against the wall again, spent. It is only her, she suspects that has kept him upright instead of curled up on the floor. As sick as he is and he still has his charismatic sense of propriety.

“Why did you eat the pastries, Aramis,” she asks quietly, after a moment’s silence.

“They were from that baker, the one a few streets from the Garrison.”

“That one? Why did you eat them if you knew they were from there?”

“d’Artagnan wouldn’t listen to me. He wanted to surprise you and they were a good deal.” Aramis lets himself sink to the ground, the churning of his stomach and weakness overriding any concerns about appearances. Besides, this is Constance. She is more a sister to him than a potential lover.

That explained d’Artagnan’s anger, Constance thinks. She sees Aramis sinking quickly and moves to give him her lap to rest his head in. He easily curls up, looking more like a sick lad than the seasoned soldier he is.

“I still don’t understand why you ate them instead of tossing them.”

“I don’t know.” Aramis gives a weak shrug. “Didn’t want you getting…. sick.” He moans as a strong wave hits him.

“You could’ve told me.”

Aramis swallows heavily, holding himself tightly in expectation of another round. When it doesn’t come, he relaxes slightly, still hugging his stomach.

“Constance, don’t…” Aramis doesn’t get any further as the next wave comes and he’s dry heaving into the chamber pot again. During the lucid moments of this cycle, he thinks it might be worth it if he could get something down so that the vomiting would be less painful. But then the thought of anything, food or liquid is more than enough to send him into an extended round.

When he’s done he returns to the floor. She wordlessly gets him to rest in her lap again and throws a blanket over him. He pulls the blanket tightly, fighting shivers that won’t leave.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, trying not to sink too deep into his misery.

“Thank you,” she replies quietly.

“Didn’t want you sick,” he mutters.

“I appreciate that but find a better solution next time,” she chides gently.

They sink into silence as Aramis works through his nausea and Constance comforts him. The sun is nearly setting when Constance speaks again.

“When are Athos and Porthos coming back?”

“Don’t know. d’Art’nan was rea’y mad,” Aramis slurs, weak and tired. He’s done with the worst of the vomiting, left now with lingering nausea, aches, and weakness. “Go home. Be fine here.” He tries to move away from her, but his sickness has robbed him of that strength.

“My husband will understand,” she says, though she’s not entirely sure. d’Artagnan’s arrival a few months ago stirred up a nasty wave of jealousy in him. He’s not been violent, but he has been rather possessive.

“Go home, Constance,” Treville says, walking easily into the room. “I’ll take care of him. I have one of the men standing outside to escort you home.”

“It’s fine.”

“And you’ve been here most of the afternoon. Porthos and Athos won’t be back for a while yet. d’Artagnan was very angry when he left.”

“Are you sure?” She knows that Treville cares for his men, but he’s not known to play nursemaid.

“I would’ve relieved you sooner, but the King had some urgent business to discuss. Go home before your husband grows more jealous of you spending your time with these four.”

Constance doesn’t argue anymore. She does, however, help Treville to coax Aramis to his feet and support him as they get him settled on his bed.

“I don’t approve of his method,” Treville says as she’s walking out of the door, “but you know that he, any of them, would do anything to protect you.”

“Even eating spoiled pastries?”

“Of course. You are their sister like they’re brothers to one another.”

Constance isn’t sure what to say. She’s seen them as her brothers for a while but never was sure if the sentiment was returned. Instead, she nods and leaves, letting the man standing outside escort her home even though she’s comfortable walking home alone.


	12. A Pair of Mother Hens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: starvation) Athos and Porthos debate the best way to help Aramis with his cold. (modernAU)

Aramis gives a heavy sigh that quickly turns into a chest rattling wet cough at hearing Porthos and Athos argue, again. He really could’ve taken care of this by himself, gotten himself the medicine, but they were refusing to listen to him. More than anything, he wants a cold glass of water, even though it’ll set off his cough, the coolness will soothe his aching throat and ease his feverish body. Instead, he has two mother hens arguing and the last time he interrupted, each glared at him.

“You’re wrong, Athos. It’s starve a fever and feed a cold,” Porthos says.

“No, you’re wrong. I remember it clearly from my childhood. It’s feed a fever and starve a cold,” Athos says.

“While you two argue, could I at least get a glass of water,” Aramis asks, voice raspy and nasally.

“Water’s not going to help. You need some tea with honey,” Porthos says.

“No, he needs some orange juice,” Athos says. “The vitamin C will help his cold.”

“It’s too acidy. He has a sore throat.”

“And the tea will make him too hot. He already has a fever. There’s no need to make him hotter.”

“No, the honey will soothe his throat,” Porthos says.

“Can I just get a glass of water,” Aramis cries out, coughing harsher than last time.

“Quiet, Aramis. You’re only making yourself worse,” Porthos says.

“I…” Aramis starts to say.

“Really, Aramis. You need to keep yourself calm and stop talking. Each time you open your mouth you start coughing,” Athos says.

“I’m sick,” Aramis croaks.

“We know that and we’re trying to take care of you, but your interruptions aren’t helping.”

“Me,” Aramis whines.

“Yes, you,” Porthos reiterates. “Now, sit back and we’ll get you taken care of.”

“Right, with some juice,” Athos says confidently.

“No, tea and honey,” Porthos counters.

Aramis flings his head back onto the pillows that he’s been propped up on so he can breathe easier wincing at the pain that flares in his head. He has a headache, too. He would love to get up and get the stuff himself. In fact, he probably could while the two debate the best way to care for him and they’d never know it. His only problem is the dizziness. Whenever he tries standing or even sitting up too straight, his head gets fuzzy and he loses his balance. Faceplanting in front of the two might shut them up, but it wouldn’t do any wonders for his cold.

“It’s starve a cold and feed a fever,” Porthos says.

“No, you’re wrong. My mother always said, feed a cold, starve a fever,” Athos says.

Aramis sighs. He’s not so far gone with the cold that he doesn’t realize these two just switched their stances on colds and fevers. He might just die from the cold the way they’re going, he muses. It isn’t anything serious, just the average cold going around the office. Of course, it had to hit Aramis worse. This was his third day home with it and it wasn’t getting any better. The others had been over the worst by this point.

“He needs Tylenol,” Porthos says.

“That does no good. Ibuprofen is the key. It’ll take his fever out right away,” Athos counters.

“Ibuprofen is for aches and pains. Tylenol will take care of the fever.”

Really, Aramis thinks, this is completely unfair. The one time he actually admitted to being sick and this is what he has to deal with. Never once did he try to hide it, pretending he was fine when he was getting progressively sicker. He even told them this morning that he wasn’t feeling any better. That his coughing was worse and his headache was back. And all it got him was a couple of mother hens. He sighs again, leaning forward and holding his chest with a hand when the coughing breaks out again.

Porthos and Athos move unconsciously to help him, continuing their debate.

“Maybe he needs the ER,” Porthos ventures.

“Why do you think he needs to go to the ER?”

“He’s not getting better and this cough is worse, not to mention the fever.”

“That’s because you keep giving him Tylenol.”

“St…op,” Aramis mutters between coughs. “Ple…ase.” It’s hard to take a breath, let alone find the breath to utter a single word.

“Look at what you’ve done,” Athos says, glaring at Porthos.

“Me? What about you,” Porthos asks.

“Look at what both of you have done.” They pause in their bickering to find Treville standing at the door of Aramis’ bedroom. He doesn’t hesitate in moving next to Aramis, pushing both men to the side.

“Try to breathe deeply,” Treville coaches as he pulls a contraption from the bottom drawer of the nightstand. He quickly plugs it in, pulls a small bottle from his pocket, and drops some liquid in a canister. He knows Aramis wouldn’t’ve kept it stocked. When he turns it on, it makes a light buzzing and soon starts emitting a white mist through a plastic pipe. He brings that end to Aramis, who automatically opens his mouth. Treville holds onto the handle, rubbing a gentle hand on Aramis’ back as the man continues to struggle for breath while waiting for the medicine to take effect.

“A nebulizer,” Athos asks. He and Porthos have stayed near the end of the bed, watching as Treville works.

“Asthma? We didn’t know,” Porthos says.

“That’s no surprise,” Treville sighs. “He didn’t know until about it until last year. Chest colds and cold weather bring it on.” Treville remembers that Christmas well. Aramis had shown up on his doorstep out of the blue, sicker than he’d ever seen the man, both physically and mentally. After one panicked night when Aramis wasn’t able to catch his breath, wheezing horribly, he and Aramis had spent the night in the ER and the next day in the hospital until his breathing was under control. When the wheezing didn’t go away after the cold did, a doctor diagnosed asthma and Treville bought Aramis a nebulizer and made sure he was well stocked with medicine.

“We…” Athos trails off. He exchanges a guilty look with Porthos, remembering their debate and dismissal of Aramis.

“How’re you feeling, Aramis,” Treville asks. The man is sweaty from the effort of breathing, but he’s much more relaxed than he had been. There’s still a telltale wheezing, but his breathing is not ragged. He leans back against the pillows, taking over holding the pipe, and looks up at Porthos and Athos. He’s not angry at them.

“Not your fault,” he says, pulling the pipe from his mouth.

“Keep it in your mouth,” Treville chides him, directing the pipe back to Aramis’ mouth. He then turns to the other two. “He’s right, it’s not your fault. From the past year, if nothing else you’ve learned that Aramis is a private man. That he even let us know he was feeling sick is a miracle.”

Aramis doesn’t have the energy to look chagrined.

“But,” Treville begins, “you two are at fault for bickering when you were supposed to be taking care of him. That’s the reason I gave you the day off.”

“We were debating on how to take care of his cold. Which way was the best,” Porthos says.

“I know and everyone knows that’s a lot of nonsense. Get him some ibuprofen for the fever and headache, some water for his throat, and let him rest. Once he’s had a chance to recover from this asthma attack, we’ll see about getting him something to eat,” Treville says.

“We?”

“Yes, now get busy. Ibuprofen and water.” Porthos and Athos quickly leave, heading in opposite directions to get the requested items.

“Thanks,” Aramis says weakly around the pipe.

“You’re welcome.” Treville smiles. “Did you really think I was going to leave you to those two? They failed first aid twice.”

Aramis chuckles, wincing at the coughing it produces. His family has always been supportive, but Treville has been there for him in a way they could never be, understanding him, and knowing exactly what he needs. He would never say it to Treville or to his father, but from the moment he started ROTC in college with Treville as his drill instructor, the man quickly became his second father. Having him here makes being sick just a little less terrible.


	13. Missed Signals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: sleep deprivation): Aramis is missing on the streets of Chicago. As the temperature soars, Athos has to find Aramis before the heat gets him. (modern AU)

Athos wishes he’d seen the signs earlier. He really should’ve known that Aramis was in trouble. If he had, then Porthos wouldn’t be fighting for his life. And Aramis, he wouldn’t be missing. It means they have to divide themselves and as much as Athos wants to be at Porthos’ bedside, he’s left d’Artagnan to that task. The young man was angry when told to stay with Porthos and Athos had left without explanation. d’Artagnan would figure it out and he didn’t have time to waste on tending to hurt feelings.

Athos and Treville have split up. They both know some of Aramis’ old haunts when he lived on the streets. They hope that he is in one of those.

It’s a hot day, one of the hottest of the year. The air temperature is easily 100 and with the humidity, it’s closer to 110. There are warnings out to stay inside, in air conditioning and drink plenty of water. It’s the worst kind of day for Aramis. And there has been a string of them. Nearly a week in total of heat warnings and advisories coupled with no rain for even longer. When a good breeze gets going, it’s hot, stifling, and it takes up the dust and Athos wonders how he could have missed the haunted look in Aramis’ eyes. That look that signified he was seconds from a flashback and clearly not capable of watching Porthos’ back.

Athos is in the rough area of the city, where crime is common and law enforcement is scarce unless there’s a sudden need to cordon off a crime scene. He’s careful with each of his movements, watching for any signs of danger. He hopes his determined look and severe demeanor will scare anyone away but he knows that he sticks out worse than a sore thumb. He is a prime target for a mugging at the very least. But worse, he knows, Aramis is blaming himself. Each second they can’t find him is another second Aramis can convince himself they’re better off away from him.

He looks down every alleyway, stirring up anything along his path from people to animals to trash but the waning sunlight is little help. No part of an alley is left untouched. He knows Aramis too well by now. They’ll be able to find him, but it won’t be easy.

Aramis has a good few hours on them already. He’d stuck around after Porthos was shot three times in the back, doing whatever he could to keep the blood in Porthos and keep his brother alive. But it hadn’t been Aramis really who was there. The younger man was running on autopilot, his body doing everything he had to until his mind saw that Porthos was being taken care of and then he ran, hands dripping blood on the sidewalk as he fled. Athos felt helpless, watched as he lost grips on his two best friends, hoping that he could get them back.

They’d immediately called the police to be on the lookout. It was little surprise that out of all of the Musketeers, Aramis was the favorite of the police. But Athos knows that he and Treville would have the best luck in finding him and bringing him back in safely.

They don’t find him on the first day. Athos only goes home because Treville threatens to throw him in the task force jail until he rests for eight hours. After exactly eight hours of the most restless sleep he’s ever gotten, he’s out the next day after checking on Porthos. By seven he and Treville are back on the streets and it’s even hotter than the day before. It barely dropped below 90 during the night and the humidity is worse. If the forecasters are right, they’re in for a good storm this evening.

Hours into his search, sometime in the afternoon, he is hot and sweaty. His water is nearly gone. He’s long ditched his dress shirt, enjoying the coolness of the sweat on his undershirt whenever a breeze kicks in.

Behind a pile of crates, wedged in a small opening he finds Aramis. He doesn’t acknowledge Athos’ arrival, which is no surprise as he looks just short of full-blown heat stroke. His skin is red and dangerously dry. It only serves to highlight the dark circles under his eyes that Athos should’ve seen this week. Aramis doesn’t sleep in this weather. Instead, he spends his hours on watch, carefully positioned in his bed to see the door leading to the hallway, the closet door, and the windows. It is the one time they regret him taking the room with the most windows. There are too many potential entry points in his room for his mind to rest. If they’d been paying attention, they’d’ve pulled him into one of their rooms like before, using their presence as a calming influence on Aramis.

“’Mis,” he calls out gently. He doesn’t know if Aramis has any weapons on hand and doesn’t know how he’ll react.

Aramis rolls his head against the brick wall and opens fevered, exhausted, empty eyes to look at him. Athos hasn’t seen that look on him since they first met in Treville’s den, back when Aramis had hit what they thought was rock bottom.

“Hey, you here?”

Aramis licks his dry lips and looks away.

“Porthos is still alive. It was touch and go last night, but he woke up. He’s going to be fine.”

Aramis closes his eyes.

Athos doesn’t try to speak again. He takes out his phone and sits next to Aramis. Even though Aramis is burning up, he makes sure that part of him is touching Aramis. The effect isn’t dramatic, but Athos can feel a slight lessening of tension.

His first call is to 911. Aramis won’t respond well to the paramedics, but he needs medical attention. His second call is to Treville.

“I found him,” he says.

“Where?”

“The alley behind the old warehouse that was recently condemned.”

“I’m on my way.”

“You may just want to meet us at the hospital.”

“How bad?”

“Heat stroke, likely. Definitely exhaustion. He hasn’t said anything. I’m not even sure he’s completely here.” Athos examines Aramis visually, trying to take note of any injuries. There’s blood but he’s doubtful that’s his.

“Did you tell him?”

“Yes, I told him Porthos will be fine, but he’s too far into his mind. I can’t get him out right now.”

“The heat isn’t helping with that, I’m sure,” Treville says.

“Nor the lack of sleep. I don’t think he’s slept in the last three days and before that it can’t have been much. I don’t know how we missed it.” He’s forced to calm himself when his agitation sets Aramis off. The younger man squirms and makes a keening noise until Athos forces himself to take a couple calming breaths.

“Now’s not the time to question ourselves. Let’s get him on the mend physically, then we’ll work on the mental.”

“I know, I know,” Athos says. “I’m going to try to get them to take him to the same hospital. We’re far away, but he knows them there and they know him.”

“I’ll put a call in.” When Treville hangs up, Athos finds he’s very grateful that Treville cares so much about his men, especially Aramis. Their captain doesn’t play favorites, but he knows that Aramis is more a son to Treville than either will admit.

Aramis comes to life when the paramedics try to get him on the gurney. He finds the strength to fight them, calling out in a language Athos doesn’t understand but recognizes. Aramis is in the middle of a flashback and thinks himself in Afghanistan.

Athos doesn’t hesitate to push past the paramedics. He begins speaking Spanish. His accent is terrible. Aramis always teases him about it, but he knows that Spanish is the one language that seeps through Aramis’ flashbacks. It takes time and patience. Athos repeats the same phrases, interrupting the mantra momentarily to tell the paramedics in English what is happening.

“’thos?” Aramis’ voice is thick from dehydration and weak, but it’s crystal clear to Athos.

“’Mis?”

“’thos.” Aramis stumbles but this time Athos makes sure he is there to catch him before he can fall. He sets him on the gurney, coaxing him in Spanish to put his feet up and lay back so the paramedics can help him. When Aramis relaxes and leans back against the gurney, Athos signals to the paramedics they can approach.

“Carl, go get the drug box,” Tom says.

“You’re not sedating him,” Athos says. He still has a hand on Aramis’ shoulder and is holding onto one of Aramis’ hands with his other. Unsurprisingly, Aramis tenses again but tellingly, he doesn’t dart away.

“We need to be able to treat him,” Tom explains.

“And you can.” Athos keeps his voice steady and firm. “I will be here with him every second and you will explain clearly everything you do. He’s a veteran and he has PTSD.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“Only if you’re the enemy.”

Tom gives him a wary look, looking down at Aramis, who is surprisingly calm.

“Are you really refusing to treat a veteran? He can’t help what he’s dealing with. You even try to drug him and you’ll not only set him off but you’ll have to go through me first.” Athos takes a careful half step forward, positioning himself so that he stands protectively above Aramis.

That gets Tom’s attention. His eyes go wide and he looks at Carl, who sets the drug box back in the ambulance. Athos has to remind them occasionally to explain what they’re doing but soon they have Aramis loaded up and ready to go.

Not once, not in the ambulance, not in the ER, not on the way up to Aramis’ own room does Athos let go of Aramis. Not even when Aramis passes out in the ambulance nor when Athos has to argue with Tom and Carl again about the hospital to go to. Treville’s command is what finally gets them to listen.

Each time Aramis surfaces, fever-eyed, exhausted, and weary, Athos makes sure that Aramis sees and feels him there. It takes a few days before he’s awake for anything longer than a few bleary-eyed minutes at a time. Still, Athos is sure to update him on Porthos, who is still is in a step-down ICU until his chest tube comes out.

Even more, Athos always tells him where and when he is. The longer Aramis lies awake, the more Athos talks. He describes the room and tells him about how the others are doing, even though it’s the same each time.

Then when Aramis rolls his head away, staring at the wall instead of Athos, he talks about the elephant in the room.

“Porthos doesn’t blame you. None of us do.”

Aramis is silent.

“We should’ve seen this coming. With the weather and how tired you were looking. We should’ve seen it coming and done something.”

Still silence.

“I’m sorry, Aramis.”

“Why.” The voice is raspy. “I do… don’t be…long ‘ere.” Aramis forces himself to speak with the dry throat even though the words scratch. He does take a small sip of water when Athos offers it, but nothing more.

“Of course you do, you fool.” Porthos’ voice surprises them both. Especially when it’s not Porthos standing in the doorway, but Treville holding his phone up. Porthos, a couple floors up, is on the screen. He’s tired and clearly in pain, but he’s doing his best to hide it.

“I almost got you killed.”

“It could’ve happened to anyone of us. We’ve been running ragged this month. Anyone of us could’ve missed that shooter.”

“But it was me,” Aramis’ voice cracks, his emotions are close to the surface and tears ready to fall. “It was me and my flashbacks. I don’t deserve to be a Musketeer.”

“Yes, you do, but I know you won’t believe that right now.” Porthos sighs, hiding the wince when it pulls on his wounds. “Look, the PTSD, the flashbacks, they don’t make you weak. You’re stronger because of what you have to deal with daily and you still keep going. And know that you’ll never be alone. We’ll always be there, to listen and help as much as we can. Just talk to us, ‘Mis. Okay?”

Aramis is ready to say something when Porthos’ doctor says they need to finish up.

“Talk to us, ‘Mis. Okay?” Porthos repeats the plea.

Aramis nods. Then the call is done.

“He’s right,” Treville says. “You’ll always have a place with the Musketeers. But please, talk to us. We’re here for you, as much as we can understand.”

Again, Aramis nods. He doesn’t trust his voice.

“I’m giving you a week off once you’re released from the doctor’s care, then you’ll be on half days until you get everything under control again. You can spend the day at the office, but you’re only on duty for half of the day,” Treville adds quickly when Aramis’ face takes on a downcast look. He knows that solitude is Aramis’ worst enemy.

“Now, get some rest. Both of you. I’ll see about when you can go up to see Porthos.” They all know that nothing is really resolved, not for the long term. For the moment though, Aramis is at ease. It might be the exhaustion creeping back in or that he’s so defeated he’s willing to grasp onto any thread, but they’ll take it. And work daily to help him rebuild his defenses.


	14. Idle Amusement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: brainwashed/conditioned): Constance has a word with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis after they play a trick on d'Artagnan. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not much whump in this story. It's more the aftermath but I loved the idea too much to let it go. Thanks to those who are reading and who've left a comment. Seeing that people are enjoying the stories makes me want to keep writing more.

“All three of you are rotten, you know that,” Constance says, marching into the den, her hands on her hips. The three, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, sit on the couch. They are still on medical leave, recovering from wounds sustained during a mission gone wrong. It was a classic car chase on 294. Porthos was at the wheel, being the better driver, but he lost control in the blinding rain and they were lucky to be cut out of the car with their hearts still beating.

Each has broken bones, internal injuries, bruises, and the like. Their coworkers are taking turns in looking after them while they were at home. There are a couple nurses who come in to help during the day, but at night, d’Artagnan needs help. Often times, it’s Treville or Constance.

Tonight, it’s Constance and she’s apparently discovered d’Artagnan’s secret talent, one which even the young man didn’t know he had.

“We’re bored,” Aramis says.

“And this is how you chose to entertain yourselves?” She’s used to their antics. They’ve played the occasional trick on her. None of them as terrible as what they did to poor d’Artagnan though, especially after all he’s done to help them. They’re lucky Treville knows his men so well. He simply sighed and dismissed a red-faced d’Artagnan.

“Do you have any better ideas? We can hardly move three feet without something hurting. TV is our only entertainment.”

“And we’ve watched everything we can agree on three times,” Porthos says.

“Well, find something else and don’t take it out on that poor man. He’s worn himself out helping you and that’s how you thank him?” She starts pacing the length of the den.

“There’s nothing else to do,” Aramis whines.

“How about reading a book!” She throws her hands up, staring Aramis down.

“Read them all,” Aramis answers with a cheeky smile. She’s close, oh so close, to smacking him but she knows that there’s very little on him that doesn’t hurt.

“Play a game then.”

“We did,” Porthos says. “With d’Artagnan and he was very willing.”

“A board game!”

“We can barely move.”

“Then a video game.”

“Hard to move the controller when you can’t move a thumb,” Aramis answers, waving a casted hand.

She throws her hands in the air.

“But why d’Artagnan?”

The three shrug their shoulders, giving their best innocent looks. She knows them better. She paces one more round before sinking into the armchair to look at them. They’ve given up the innocent school boy look, which is good because she doubts any of them ever fit that description.

“How did you even learn to do that?”

They look at each other.

“It was a team effort,” Porthos says.

“Oh, I believe that but which one of you actually did it?”

They don’t say anything for a long moment. Then Athos speaks, quietly.

“What did he sing?”

“‘If I Were a Jolly Blacksmith’. During a meeting with Treville. His phone went off and he broke out into a song and dance. He’s lucky Treville knows the three of you so well.”

Porthos and Aramis lose it then, knocking into Athos as they hold their bodies against the aches and pains the laughter brings. Athos can’t help the smile at the sight of them so happy.

“Do you three know how embarrassed he is?” She stands, looking down at them. Athos stares back, the smile suddenly gone.

Then his phone rings and Constance breaks out in the first couple lines of “Hakuna Matata” moving to the middle of the den to begin the accompanying choreography.

“Hakuna Matata

What a wonderful phrase.”

When d’Artagnan runs in, sliding on the wood floor with socked feet, singing the next lines, Athos loses it. It took weeks of work, of planning and waiting, but this moment was well worth it. Not for his pleasure, but for Porthos and Aramis’. He’ll make amends to Constance and d’Artagnan later, and offer up Aramis for more babysitting duty to make it up to Treville. But for now, those hypnosis lessons have paid off threefold to see Aramis and Porthos laughing uncontrollably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If I were a Jolly Blacksmith" is from Galavant, which is a fantastic series that if you haven't watched it yet, you should.


	15. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: drugged) Athos is losing his patience with Aramis, who can't focus. (modernAU)

Athos counts to ten for the tenth time this morning. It’s half past 9am and he wants to yell at Aramis again, but he knows the man can’t help it. More finger rapping, pen tapping, twirling of the chair, and Athos looks for d’Artagnan as he amends his ten count to twenty, in Spanish because he knows he can use the practice.

When Aramis begins tapping out the melody to yet another song at a quarter to ten, Athos loses it, sort of.

“Aramis,” he forces his voice to be calm, “if you don’t stop that tapping, I will, I promise you, duct tape your hands to the desk.”

“How’m I supposed to work then,” Aramis asks absently, still tapping away. His feet are tapping in rhythm as well.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you can still reach your keyboard and mouse.” Athos really tries to keep the dangerous smile from coming, the one he uses to intimidate suspects, but he can’t help it. Aramis is unfazed.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop. I’ll sit here, quietly and work.” As proof of his effort, he takes all the pens off his desk and tosses them into a drawer. Then, he pulls himself up straight and still and starts in on working.

The silence lasts not even five minutes before Aramis starts tapping his feet again and shifting every two minutes in his creaky desk chair.

Athos counts and stares.

Aramis, in all of his distractedness, doesn’t notice for almost ten counts of twenty. He at least looks contrite.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. Do you think I’m happy about this? As I’ve sat here trying to dig deeper on our latest suspect, I’ve jumped through ten different Wikipedia articles and haven’t read more than a few short phrases of each. I’m going from thinking about what I had for breakfast to what I’m going to make for Porthos’ birthday next month to what we should do for Treville and Sarah’s wedding anniversary next year. And that’s in a minute.”

In the time Aramis has spent ranting, he’s gotten to his feet to pace while shaking out his legs and fidgeting with some playdough he keeps on his desk. Athos watches him carefully, noticing the energy that rolls off of him in constant, crashing waves. Yes, Aramis normally has bounds of energy, but this is far out of the norm and it is all d’Artagnan’s fault.

Young d’Artagnan, however, has wisely chosen to make himself scarce after showing up with the surprise that put Aramis in this state: a large cup of coffee with three shots of espresso. Aramis drinks a single, standard cup of coffee in the morning partly for the caffeine, but mostly for the warmth. Caffeine doesn’t do well in Aramis. It makes him like this, which no one can tolerate for long.

Porthos has fled somewhere already.

Athos watches Aramis pace, twitching, flexing, and fidgeting.

“Alright, let’s try this again.” Aramis sits down with a measured sigh. He has his fingertips on the keyboard, when he shifts, again. The chair squeaks. He taps his feet, moves his legs back and forth, tapping the edges of the metal desk. Again, the chair squeaks.

“That’s it.” Athos stands tossing down his pen. “Aramis, we’re going down to the gym.” He turns off his computer, seeing Aramis go still in a panic. “We’ll grab d’Artagnan on our way down there.”

“Athos?”

“He needs some sparring practice and you need to burn off this energy.” Athos gives him a smile.

When they’ve collected d’Artagnan and Porthos and they’re ready for sparring practice, Athos pairs d’Artagnan with a still unable to stand still Aramis. The young man is looking decidedly nervous as he watches Aramis stretch and move about. It’s far less finessed and more energetic than he’s used to from Aramis. The former Navy Seal has a certain grace about him when he fights.

“Are you sure this is a good idea,” d’Artagnan asks Athos quietly.

“Positive.” Athos slaps a hand on his shoulder that is usually comforting but now feels more menacing. “He can’t sit still and needs to burn off this energy if we’re going to get anything done. And you are usually full of extra energy.”

“Are you sure this isn’t revenge?” d’Artagnan gives him a suspicious look.

“Of course not,” Athos says carefully. “Porthos and me, being the older of this quartet, could never keep up so it’s up to you.”

“You may think you’re a convincing liar but I still don’t believe you. But I’ll go spar with him anyway. Might even be able to take him down today.” D’Artagnan is confident as he walks away.

“He thinks he’s going to take ‘Mis down like this.” Porthos gives an easy smile, walking up next to Athos. “He’s crazy. I bet ‘Mis’ll take him down more times than he can count.”

“Is that a wager?” Athos eyes Porthos carefully. Betting isn’t out of the norm for them and Athos is sure he has a handle on how this matchup will go down.


	16. The Unlearned Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: sensory deprivation): There is one thing Aramis is not good at doing in the kitchen. (modern AU)

Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan are relaxing in the den when they hear Aramis curse in the kitchen and run to the downstairs bathroom. Porthos turns to Athos with an incredulous look. Athos returns it with an exasperated look.

“What?” d’Artagnan looks between the two of them, puzzled at their reactions.

“He did it again,” Porthos says with a sigh, ignoring d’Artagnan.

“Sounds like it,” Athos says.

“I did warn him before he got started.”

“I know. I heard you warning him to be careful all week.”

“I thought it might prevent this.”

“Apparently not.” Athos sighs.

They give each other another a look, testing to see who will crack first, if d’Artagnan’s estimation of their silent conversation is accurate. He’s been on the taskforce little under a year now and has gotten used to their ways of communicating.

“I’ll go help him out,” d’Artagnan says, moving towards the bathroom.

“You don’t even know what he’s done,” Athos says in a drawl, not moving from his showdown with Porthos.

“I’m sure I can figure it out,” d’Artagnan says over his shoulder on the way out. He finds Aramis back in the kitchen hunched over the island, a glass in front of him. Aramis quickly spits some ice back into the glass when he hears d’Artagnan.

“’m ‘ine,” he says.

“That doesn’t sound fine.” d’Artagnan walks around to the other side to stand across from Aramis.

“Ooh, i’s ‘ou.” Aramis is relieved to see d’Artagnan standing there.

“What happened?”

“’urned mah ton’e.”

“What?”

“He burned his tongue,” Athos says, walking to the freezer, where he pulls out a popsicle and removes the wrapper.

“Stick out your tongue,” Athos commands, tone light.

Aramis hesitates for a second before caving under Athos’ gaze and the temptation of the cool popsicle.

“It doesn’t look any worse than last time but you won’t be able to eat anything tonight. But then you won’t be able to taste anything for a week,” Athos says with a small smile. He unceremoniously sticks the popsicle on Aramis’ tongue. The younger man sighs at the coolness. It nearly falls to the counter when Athos lets it go and Aramis doesn’t realize it but he saves it before it has the chance to drop far.

“Last time?” d’Artagnan looks to Athos then Aramis, who gives a shoulder shrug, looking chagrined.

“Same time, last year,” Porthos says, smiling from the doorway. “How many peppers this time, ‘Mis?”

“’even,” Aramis says, taking the popsicle out of his mouth.

“No talking.” Athos pushes the popsicle back. “Leave it there until it’s gone.”

“Why, ‘Mis.” Porthos gives a light chuckle. “You know you’ll never beat me.”

Athos glares at Aramis to keep him from speaking again, leaving Aramis to give a pathetic shoulder shrug.

“Is this chili?” d’Artagnan is by the stove, investigating the pot that is boiling away.

“Don’t touch it,” Porthos says. “Eat it and you’ll lose your taste buds. It’s Aramis’ infamous chili.”

“Infamous?”

“Yes, Aramis may be an excellent baker and a good cook, but he’s terrible at making chili.”

Aramis gives Porthos a glare.

“Now, Porthos, we have to be fair,” Athos says, walking around behind Aramis. “It’s only because you always win the chili off that he’s so insistent on winning.”

“Ah, but he’s failed to understand the first rule of chili making. It’s not about the spice, it’s about flavor. You can have all the spice in the world, but all it’ll do is drown out the flavor,” Porthos says, waltzing into the kitchen.

“And you’ll burn your tongue and lose your sense of taste.”

“Is it bad,” Porthos asks.

“No. But he won’t be eating any chili tonight.”

“He didn’t eat any last year either.”

“Or the year before that.”

d’Artagnan gives Aramis an incredulous look to which the man gives a weak shrug but doesn’t make an effort to deny the claims.

“And your first year here, you were too sick to eat anything other than applesauce and toast,” Porthos says.

“I don’t think you’ve ever eaten any of the chili during the taskforce’s chili cook-off,” Athos remarks.

“Really,” d’Artagnan gives Aramis another look. The man’s been here for five years and apparently sabotaged himself nearly every year. Aramis gives another shoulder shrug, resigning himself to a night of only smelling the wide array of chilis cooked.

“Maybe next year,” Porthos says, putting a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Maybe next year.”

Aramis sighs, enjoying the relief still from the popsicle. It was going to be a long night and not just because of the lack of chili eating. Porthos and Athos, likely now d’Artagnan, too, would not let him live this down.


	17. A Child's Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: withdrawal): Ben, one of Treville's kids, is curious about the strange man in the den. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my modern AU, I've redone Savoy. It's not called Savoy anymore because it wouldn't fit. Aramis was a Navy SEAL who served in Afghanistan and that is where 'Savoy' occurred. Treville wasn't involved in any way. There will be more on this in later stories. 
> 
> Also, Ben is Treville and Sarah's middle child, though here he is the youngest because Meg isn't born yet. There is some mention of panic attacks and mass killing but these are also filtered through the understanding of a child.

Ben is bored after lunch. Tim doesn’t want to play games with him or go out in the snow. As happens to many four-year-olds, boredom easily turns to curiosity. The den he likes to play in has been shut to him for the last couple weeks with only his parents and a doctor going in. He knows there’s a man in there. Ben remembers him showing up a couple weeks ago. He looked like the people he sees on the street asking for money. But dad took him in without question. He even looked like he was going to cry. Dad didn’t but the other man did. He still does.

During the night Ben often hears him scream and cry. Dad’s always running down the stairs to go to the man. It doesn’t always help but if anyone can make the man feel better it’s dad.

He’s been told several times to stay out because the man needs his rest. He’s been really sick, dad said and needs time to recover away from people. But today, Ben is bored and curious and the door is cracked open. Mom forgot to close it after leaving the tray of food. Ben overheard his parents talking several days ago. The strange man didn’t want mom coming into the den. Ben doesn’t understand why. Mom always makes things better, especially when you’re sick. But mom was crying that night and dad said it was for the best to just do as the man wanted. He’s “had a rough time of things”, whatever that means.

Ben peers through the crack. Every light in the room is on as is the TV. The man, with short hair and a pale face, is staring straight at him from the armchair at the opposite end of the room. He had long, knotted hair and a big beard when he came but they cut it all off. He looks scared and worried but also tired. Ben slowly pushes the door open. The creak it makes, makes the man jump and his breathing picks up, but he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, watching Ben without blinking. He’s still wearing dad’s old clothes because his were smelly and torn. They are big on him.

“Hi,” Ben says cheerfully.

The man doesn’t make a noise.

“My name is Ben. What’s yours?”

Silence.

Ben waits what feels like minutes for a response. When the man doesn’t say anything, Ben climbs onto the couch, sitting on the far end back against the armrest, with his knees bent, socked feet resting on the couch. He watches and waits. The man looks really tired and thin but he doesn’t look sick like dad said. He looks sad like Mr. Carwer looks because Mrs. Carwer died. Ben thinks the man’s a grown up but he looks like some of the older kids on the bus.

“I’m bored,” Ben says. “Tim won’t go out and play in the snow with me. Do you want to?”

The man’s eyes go wide and he pushes back into the chair. His breathing picks up again and he coughs. There’s a funny squeaking sound to each breath.

“I guess not.” Ben can’t help the disappointment. They sit there for a while longer, the man squeaking with each breath but he doesn’t look so scared anymore.

“What do you want to do?” Ben tries again but the man doesn’t say anything. After a while, Ben leaves, closing the door to a crack again.

The next day, Ben goes back after lunch again. He tries again to talk to the man, but he doesn’t say anything. Ben sticks around longer this time, watching whatever comes on the TV with him and talking about it. The man doesn’t pay attention to the TV but keeps the constant lookout.

After a couple hours, he leaves before he can get caught. But that night, he comes back when dad is talking with the man. He peaks through the crack in the door again, watching as dad talks and helps him with his breathing. The man has a lot of trouble breathing and coughs a lot.

When he returns on the third day, at his normal time, he brings some crayons and his favorite coloring books.

“Hi,” Ben says, remembering how his dad greeted the man. He’s still sitting in the armchair, watching everything. “Mom says it’s too cold to go outside today, so I brought some of my coloring books.”

Ben moves some things to the side of the coffee table and sets out his books and crayons to start coloring. He talks about different things. He tells the man about school, about Tim, about what he wants for Christmas.

“Mom’s going to have a baby,” Ben says. “She keeps saying she wants a girl, but I don’t want it to be a girl. Girls are gross. Dad says we won’t know until the baby is here.”

Ben stops talking when the man starts coughing and can’t stop. The squeaking sound is getting stronger. He looks back at the man who has his eyes fixed on the TV. There’s some news story about some soldiers dying somewhere Ben can’t recognize.

“Hey, you okay?” Ben walks over to the man. It’s the closest he’s gotten to him but the man doesn’t see him. He reaches out to touch the man’s arm, which makes them both jump. The man tumbles out of the chair landing in a loud heap on the floor. Ben falls back against the couch. It startles him for a moment then he gets back up to walk over to the man, who is really breathing hard and mumbling.

“No, no, no, no,” the man repeats the same word in a mindless mantra. It’s broken up by his loud breathing and the squeaking noise. Ben finds the red thing he saw dad use to help the man.

“Here.” He holds it out, hoping the man will take it. When he doesn’t, Ben pulls his hand back and moves to sit next to the man. He’s close enough that their bodies are just touching and he can feel the man’s body shaking. It all scares him and he thinks he might have to call mom but he doesn’t want to leave the man alone. He looks terrified like there’s a monster in the room. 

“You gotta use this.” He holds up the red object again. “Please.”

The man looks at him, face red, eyes wide. Ben takes the cap off and puts it in the man’s hand. He stares at the object, then at Ben, breathing heavy still. Ben pushes the man’s hand up to his face. He doesn’t know how it works, but he knows it has to be in the man’s mouth.

“Please,” Ben says again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to help. Don’t die, please.” Ben is nearly in tears, pleading with the man.

After another moment, the man takes control of the object, pushing down on the top. They wait, listening to the TV and the man’s breathing as he uses it again. After several moments, the man seems to be breathing better.

“You okay?” Ben gives him a concerned look.

The man hesitates before giving a slow nod, breathing out, slowly, evenly.

“Good. You scared me.”

The man gives him a confused look.

“I know dad said you’re sick but you’re still fun to hang out with. You’re not sick like I thought. You just look really sad, like you could use some company. I know Mr. Carwer was sad when Mrs. Carwer died because he’s alone now. He’s always happy when we go see him.”

The man doesn’t speak still, but Ben can feel him relax some. They sit there for a while longer, mostly in silence.

“Aramis,” the man says, voice dry and low.

“Huh?”

“That’s my name. It’s Aramis.” Aramis looks directly at him. He still looks sad.

“Ben, you’re not supposed to be in here,” dad says, walking in quickly to pick him up. “Sorry, Aramis. Sarah fell asleep and Tim forgot to check on him. I hope he didn’t disturb you.”

“He’s fine,” Aramis says quietly. “Ben can stay, if he wants.”

“Are you sure? I know how you’ve been about kids lately.”

“He can stay, if he wants to.” Aramis goes back to sitting in the chair.

“Can I stay, dad?” Ben looks up to his dad. He sees him thinking about it and fears that he’ll say no.

“Sure, you can stay. But be careful about bugging Aramis. He’s still sick and needs to take it easy.” His dad sets him back down and Ben goes back to his coloring.

“I know that, dad, but he’s not going to break.” Ben turns to Aramis. “You can color some, if you want. I have lots of crayons and another coloring book.”

Treville waits for a moment to make sure that Aramis is okay before leaving. Aramis may not trust himself with kids right now, but there’s no one Treville trusts more than Aramis with his own kids. He doesn’t know everything that went down on that mission, but he knows that the injuries Aramis sustained were from doing everything he could to protect those kids. And the mental wounds were a sign of how much it affected him that nothing he did saved a single kid that night.

Treville spends the next hour helping Sarah prep for the holiday party before going to check on Aramis and Ben. For once, instead of sitting in the armchair, Aramis is kneeling on the floor by the coffee table, coloring. He’s not talking, but he is inches from Ben and there’s not a sign of tension in his body. That alone is a positive enough sign for Treville that Aramis can and will recover. He won’t be the same but he will come back from this.


	18. The Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: flashback) Porthos and Aramis run into trouble while out on assignment, leaving Athos and d'Artagnan to try to help them. (modernAU)

When Athos gets a call from Porthos he thinks it will be an update on the assignment he and Aramis were sent out on. What greets him after he answers is the tell-tale heavy breathing of Aramis. He’s heard it too often over the past five years to mistake it for Porthos.

“At…ath…” Aramis is breathing too fast to speak but Athos can hear the panic in those broken words.

“Aramis, take a deep breath,” Athos says calmly. He hears a pause in breathing, then a deep breath. “Again,” he commands. They repeat this several more times until Aramis’ breathing is slower. It’s not back to normal but they can talk now.

“Athos, help,” Aramis blurts out.

“What happened? Why are you calling on Porthos’ phone,” Athos asks.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Aramis, what happened?”

“Help me, Athos,” Aramis pleads. The concern in his voice moves Athos to his feet. He snaps his fingers in d’Artagnan’s direction.

“Where’s Porthos?”

“He’s here. I don’t know what to do.”

“Is he hurt?” Athos directs d’Artagnan to track the call.

“No, but I don’t know what to do.”

“What’s going on,” d’Artagnan asks quietly.

“I don’t know. Aramis won’t say.” Athos covers the speaker so Aramis can’t hear them talk.

“Panic attack?”

“No, but that’s coming probably.” Athos tries to hold back the sigh. “It’s something with Porthos.”

“Athos? Are you still there? Athos, I don’t know what to do.” Aramis’ breathing is picking up again.

“First, you need to stay calm. Whatever’s happened, we can fix it.” Athos hopes he’s not giving the man false hope.

“But he’s not responding. He won’t answer me.”

“Is he conscious?” Athos is watching d’Artagnan work. The young man isn’t very adept at computers and he wants to push him out of the seat but Aramis needs him on the phone.

“I think so. What do I do, Athos?”

“Aramis, you’re going to have to tell me more before I can tell you anything.” Athos tries to keep the frustration out of his voice but he knows instantly it doesn’t work. Aramis hiccups, a clear sign that he’s on the verge of tears.

“I’m sorry, Athos. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what to do.”

“’Mis,” Athos says calmly, cutting off the rambling in an instant. “Can you tell me where you are?”

“An alley,” Aramis answers. Athos holds back a sigh and taps on d’Artagnan’s shoulder to hurry him up.

“Okay, that’s helpful. That’s good,” Athos says encouragingly. “Porthos wasn’t hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean something might’ve happened. He might’ve been shot and I didn’t notice.

“I wasn’t doubting you. You would’ve noticed.” Athos tries to reassure Aramis but the younger man isn’t listening. He apparently left the phone somewhere if the fading crunch of his shoes is any clue.

“Please, Porthos. I just want to help.” Athos hears Aramis plead with Porthos. There’s some shifting, groaning, and a loud smack that ends with a clear thud and clattering against the phone. Athos can only imagine the scene and none of it is good.

“Aramis,” he nearly shouts. “Pick up the damn phone, Aramis.” He wishes he could switch the phone to speaker or turn on the camera. He needs to know what is going on.

There’s some rustling, stifled hisses, and sniffling. Then Aramis is back.

“He hit me.” Aramis’ voice is shaky from fear, confusion, and tears. “He hit me, Athos. What do I do?”

“Got it,” d’Artagnan says.

“You’re driving.” Athos doesn’t bother telling Treville. He and d’Artagnan grab their badges and guns and run to the car. “Use the lights.”

“Athos?” Aramis’ voice is far too small for Athos’ heart to stand it.

“We’re coming, Aramis. We’ll be there in minutes,” Athos says.

“What do I do? I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t go near Porthos. Just stay there. Stay where you are.” Athos is mostly sure he knows what’s going on and Aramis is best off staying clear. Whereas most of Aramis’ flashbacks are nonviolent, all of Porthos’ have the potential for violence if one is not aware of how to calm him down. Somehow, in his three years on the task force, Aramis has, until now, never witnessed one of Porthos’ flashbacks, a testament to how hard Porthos has worked, through counseling, to learn his triggers and how to ward off the beginnings of a flashback.

“What’s happening, Athos? He hit me.” Aramis is confused and Athos can hear his breathing pick up again. He’s not sure that he can ward off a panic attack for the third time and he needs Aramis alert.

“He’s not there right now. You know when you have flashbacks, when you get caught up in your mind?” Athos hates sounding like he’s talking to a child, but Aramis is barely processing and he needs the man to understand.

“Yeah.”

“He’s dealing with the same thing. He’s having a flashback. He thinks he’s somewhere else. He doesn’t know that he hit you and when he does, he’s going to feel really guilty.”

“Oh.” Aramis pauses. “But what do I do?”

“Talk to him.”

Athos hears Aramis set the phone down and start talking. It’s unsteady at first, hesitant.

“Hey, Porthos. I…I’m sorry I don’t know what to do.” Aramis sniffs loudly, hiccupping. “Athos says you’re having a flashback. He says to just talk but what’m I supposed to talk about.” There’s a pause again with a muffled strangle cry.

Athos can picture the scene all too well. Aramis will sit a few feet from Porthos, not for his own safety but because he doesn’t want to provoke Porthos again and make him feel more guilt. He has his legs pulled up, one arm wrapped tightly around his legs, the other is playing with the drawstring to the hood on his hoodie, rolling it, biting it. It’s a nervous tick that is second nature to the man. His face is red with panic and tears. There’s one darker spot, redder, on his cheek where Porthos hit him because Porthos always goes for that shot.

“I screwed up,” Aramis says at last, voice wet. “I’m supposed to be your partner, watch your six and I fucked up. Can’t even look after you. You and ‘thos help me all the time with this and the one time you need help I have no fucking clue what to do. They were right.”

Athos doesn’t want to listen to Aramis continue to berate himself but he does because someone is going to have to pick him back up.


	19. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: panic attack): After having a panic attack while on assignment, Porthos and Athos question if Aramis is a good fit for the Musketeers. (modernAU)

Aramis has been on the task force for two weeks when he has a panic attack while out on assignment with Athos and Porthos. It was not the first since joining but it is the worst yet and had terrible timing. They were interviewing a witness when he was triggered. Aramis remembers nothing but failing to keep himself under control from the middle of the interview to nearly an hour later in Treville’s office, where he is stretched out on the couch. When he comes to, Athos, Porthos, and Treville are talking.

“… more than qualified,” Treville says.

“I understand what you’re saying, Captain,” Athos says, “but I’m not sure he’s right for the task force.”

“He hardly talks, jumps at nearly every noise, and his panic attack scared our witness. We almost lost the most important witness in our case,” Porthos adds.

“He’s been through a lot. Give him time.” Treville tries to reason with them.

“We’re not unsympathetic to that,” Athos says.

“But he’s not fitting in.”

Treville sighs. Aramis doesn’t disagree with Athos and Porthos. He knows that he’s far from recovered. While he would like to move out on his own, he doesn’t have the money or mental stability to do so. Living with Treville is not ideal but he’s grateful. The older man could have simply taken him to a shelter but he’s accepted him into his family, let him be around his children. Still, Aramis spends most of his time secluded, save for the regular visits from Ben and Treville.

If he were stronger, Aramis thinks, he would sit up and leave. He’d walk out the doors and let these men continue on with their lives without him interrupting, interfering. In time, months from now, he will admit to himself that he never left because he wanted help more than he wanted to spend another night alone on the streets. And someday he might tell them that.

“He needs time.” Treville feels like a broken record but he knows Aramis better than these men. If he has to, he’ll stick Aramis on another team but in the short time that he’s known this new Aramis, this almost alien Aramis, these two men, Athos in particular, are the only ones he’s willingly talked to, let the tension out of his shoulders some. With Athos and Porthos as his teammates, he knows that Aramis will recover.

“I don’t know. Maybe he needs more time to recover,” Porthos suggests. Treville hasn’t been forthcoming with all of the details surrounding Aramis but they do know that whatever happened was horrific and devastated Aramis. Treville had gone to see him after Aramis was rescued, but lost track of him after he was discharged. No one knew where the man was until he showed up on Treville’s doorstep.

“I know,” Treville says with a sigh. “I just thought that he would do better working. He’s at his worst when he’s alone with nothing to focus on.” It is hard to think that Aramis, the man he’s known since he was a raw recruit in ROTC had spent months on the streets, willingly cut off from family and unwillingly so from friends.

“But is police work the right thing for a man recovering from a traumatic event,” Athos questions. “We don’t doubt that he can do the work, Captain. It’s the timing. Maybe in a few months or a year, when he’s more recovered.”

Treville pauses, hesitant to speak too much about Aramis. There is a thin line of trust between him and the man. It is stronger than with others, but Treville has the sense that a single error would snap that line and Aramis would be gone forever. That he simply can’t allow but he needs his two best men to understand.

“Without this job, he won’t last a few months,” Treville says.

Aramis listens to the pause, imagines the raised eyebrows.

“A little dramatic there, Captain,” Athos questions.

“No,” Treville answers simply. “I have seen him like this before, not as bad. He nearly gave up a full ride to college to enlist. I convinced him to go into ROTC instead and that saved him. But now,” Treville pauses. “Now, he’s been abandoned by those who swore to protect him, to watch his six. The first sign he wasn’t recovering according to plan and they all deserted him.”

“And you think we can help him,” Porthos says. No one was quite sure how he and Athos managed to work so well. They are from opposite ends of society, with completely different backgrounds and personalities. There were times they fought worse than an old married couple.

I’m not going to force you two to keep him on your team but I do think he’s best off with you two. I know you can’t see it but he is more comfortable with the two of you than with anyone else.”

“He needs help, Captain,” Athos says. There are few who know that Athos has a standing appointment with a psychiatrist. Since his divorce, he’s battled depression and alcoholism. With a family history of addiction and Porthos’ help, he has worked hard not to go down that path. He knows that what Aramis needs more than work, than friendship, no matter what Treville says, is professional help and fast.

“I know. I’m working on it. The VA is being difficult.”

“And what do we do in the meantime, if he has another attack,” Porthos asks.

“You mean when,” Athos corrects. “I presume he’s had others nearly as bad as this?” When they arrived with a mostly unconscious Aramis, detailing what had happened, Treville gave no look of surprise. Instead, he sighed and told them to bring him into the office.

“Yes. He hadn’t for a couple weeks, so I thought he might be getting through the worst of it.”

“He can’t be out in the field,” Athos says.

“No, I know,” Treville says. “He’ll stay in the office until he can get to a psychiatrist. As worried and scared as you two were, I know these attacks aren’t easy for him either.” Treville will never forget the first time he saw Aramis have an attack. He thought it would never end. And then there was the terror and embarrassment in Aramis’ eyes. The utter shame that overtook his body.

“You’ll give him another chance then,” Treville asks.

There’s a pause that makes Aramis’ stomach drop. If they say no, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“Yeah, we’ll give him another chance,” Porthos says.

“Thank you.”

“Captain, our concerns are not meant to be callous but we do have a job to do,” Athos says. His voice is further away, as if he’s by the door. “Aramis is talented but he needs help. We will do what we can but this has to be something he wants, too. You can’t force him.”

There’s silence as the door opens and closes with a low snick of the handle.

“Do you understand, Aramis,” Treville says without preamble.

Aramis opens his eyes to look at Treville, not surprised that the man knew he was awake.

“You know that I will help you wherever I can, but I can only do this if you want it. Athos, Porthos, they’ll help you too, but only if you want it.”

Aramis swallowed loudly.

“I don’t want to lose you again. I don’t want you going back to the streets because we both know you won’t last much longer there. But you have to want us to help you. You need to talk to me or them, one of us, if you’re having problems. If you think you’re going to have a flashback or attack. You’ve already used that charismatic personality of yours to get those two to care enough about you to keep you on the team. Neither of them opens up to new people easily. They’ve gone through more partners than the task force combined. Let them, let us earn your trust. Talk to us.”

Aramis is quiet for a long moment, thinking. It doesn’t take long to consider his options. He knows that leaving isn’t an option. But talking, asking for help that’s not something he thinks he can do. The last time he tried, everyone left. He rolls onto his side, pulling his knees up a bit.

“René?”

“I want to, Treville. I do but I don’t know that I can.”

“Trust us.”

Another pause, then Aramis speaks quietly.

“I don’t know how.”


	20. Holed Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: threats): Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan deal with an Aramis who refuses to leave his room. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, I think, is the last funny one for a bit. I took a serious, angsty turn after this. But they do give more of Aramis' backstory after this one.

Sitting in the hallway, feet stretched out in front of him, back leaning against Aramis’ shut bedroom door, Athos wonders how his day came to this. It has started off normal with Aramis and Porthos debating over whether pancakes or waffles were superior and d’Artagnan running late. They made it to work with seconds to spare.

Then Aramis whacked his head reaching for something under his desk, smashed his hand in both the drawer and the car door, and tripped walking to get lunch with Porthos. All of that was rather minor, leaving the younger man with bruises and cuts. The final straw, apparently, had been burning his hand in the kitchen. It wasn’t a bad burn, but given his luck lately, they’d decided to take him to the ER to get it treated properly.

Arriving home, Aramis had ignored them all, walking, almost stomping up to his room and shutting the door with a loud slam. They’d decided for the time being to leave him alone. But now, a few hours after their trip to the ER and Aramis has yet to make an appearance. Only if he hears or suspects something bad is happening will he force himself through the door.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Athos says loud enough to be heard through the door.

“He’s still not out,” Porthos asks, walking up the last couple steps.

“No.” Athos shakes his head.

“I don’t understand what’s going on with him.”

“It has been a pretty bad day for him.”

“Let me try.” Porthos steps up to the door. “Aramis,” he calls out, knocking loudly on the door. “We have to be at Treville’s in an hour. If you don’t come out in the next minute, you’re on d’Artagnan gathering duty for the rest of the year.” Their youngest was notorious for not keeping track of the time.

“I’m not coming out,” Aramis shouted back.

“You’re going to have to at some point.”

“No, I don’t. I’m not stepping foot outside of this room again and nothing that you or Athos say can make me.”

“You want to be banned from the kitchen,” Porthos throws out.

There’s a slight pause before Aramis answers.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not coming out so I don’t need the kitchen. ‘Sides that kitchen hates me.”

“Nonsense,” Athos says.

“I’m. Not. Coming. Out.”

“He’s still refusing?” d’Artagnan is standing at the top of the stairs.

“He won’t come out.” Porthos throws his hands up in frustration.

“You tried threatening him?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t care about the kitchen.”

“Let me try.” d’Artagnan moves Porthos out of the way to stand in front of the door. “Aramis,” he calls out.

“I’m not coming out,” Aramis returns.

“I’ll tell Treville to put you on liaison duty for the next year.” d’Artagnan turns to the others with a confident smile, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’t care. I’m not coming out.”

The three look at each other at that. This is serious.

“What’re we going to do? We have to leave soon,” Porthos says.

“And the kids are looking forward to seeing him,” d’Artagnan adds.

“Let’s not forget either that he needs his pain medication and a check on those injuries before we leave,” Athos says.

“Yeah, but he’s not budging and we all know how stubborn he can be,” Porthos says.

“Constance,” d’Artagnan suggests.

“No, won’t work.” Porthos shakes his head.

“Treville,” d’Artagnan says after a moment’s pause.

“Perfect.”

“But we can’t ask him to come over on such short notice,” Athos says.

“Damn.” Porthos leans back against the wall. Suddenly, Athos stands.

“Aramis,” Athos says loudly. “If you don’t open this door in the next ten seconds, Porthos will call Treville.”

Porthos gives him an irritated look to which Athos simply glares. When Athos starts counting, Porthos pulls out his phone.

“Three.”

Porthos quickly searches through the contact list to find Treville.

“Two.”

Porthos gives Athos a questioning look.

“O…”

The door opens a crack, enough for Aramis to pop his head out.

“I don’t want to go anywhere tonight. I don’t care that it’s a get together at Treville’s. I’m not leaving this room.”

“You’re going to disappoint his kids,” Porthos asks.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Alright, but at least let us take a look at your injuries. And you need to take your pain meds,” Athos says.

“Fine.” Aramis reluctantly gives in and opens the door further to let them in.

Athos is the first in and guides Aramis back to the bed and starts to look at the burn as well as the scrapes.

“So, why don’t you want to come out of here,” Porthos asks, leaning against the door frame.

Aramis sighs and looks down.

“’Mis?”

“It’s dangerous out there,” Aramis mutters.

“Look, we all have bad days,” d’Artagnan says. He’s leaning on the other side of the door frame.

“It’s not just about today.”

“Then what,” Porthos asks.

“I can’t say exactly.” Aramis shrugs his shoulders. “It’s been a crappy month and it’s not even over.”

“It’s not that bad,” d’Artagnan says.

“Really?” Aramis turns so suddenly he almost pulls his hand out of Athos’ grip. It’s only Athos’ quick thinking that makes him grab onto the injured man’s wrist to keep it steady.

“Stay put,” Athos hisses as kindly as he can manage.

“About the only things that haven’t happened to me are being poisoned, stabbed, shot, or killed and there’s still ten days left, so I’m sure at least two of those will.”

“Eleven,” Athos mutters.

“What?”

“There’re eleven days left.”

Aramis gives him a glare that would melt metal.

“Sorry.” Athos returns to examining and rebandaging the wounds.

“I get that it’s been a tough month for you, but don’t you think spending some time having fun, hanging out with the kids would be good,” d’Artagnan says.

“I can only think of what could happen there.”

“Maybe nothing will happen.”

“Oh, trust me, something will.”

“We’ll stick with you tonight,” Porthos says.

Aramis looks ready to object again when Porthos speaks again.

“And you promised those kids you’d come. Do you want to break that promise? Disappoint them?

“Fine,” Aramis sighs. “But if something happens, I’m blaming the three of you and not coming out of this room until the end of the month.”


	21. Between a Rock and a Hardplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: thrown against something) Athos finds out some important information about Aramis that sheds light on what happened on that mission. (modernAU)

When Athos makes the discovery, he decides to go straight to Treville’s house rather than call. The drive is shorter than normal and before he’s fully had time to think about how to break the news, he’s forced to get out of his car to walk up to the front door.

Sarah answers the door with Ben peering around her to see who’s there.

“I need to see Treville,” Athos blurts out.

“He’s in with Aramis. He’s had a bad morning.” Sarah moves to the side to allow Athos in. She’s familiar with the man, him being one of the first on the task force and Treville’s de facto second-in-command. She’s not upset about the noise or disturbance. She’d met Aramis, once, at Treville’s retirement ceremony, and he seemed like a nice young man. It’s more the kids she is concerned about and how they’re dealing with the shouting and loss of time with their father to help a man they don’t know.

“Perhaps now’s not a good time,” Athos mutters.

“No, now’s a good time,” she says. “He’s been in with Aramis for the last few hours. He might appreciate your presence. And it sounds like this is something that can’t wait.” She gestures for him to go back.

“It could, but it shouldn’t.” Athos sighs and walks the familiar path back to the den. He hesitates as he contemplates if a knock is worth it or might set Aramis off. Inside there’s no noise, so he decides to quietly open the door and poke his head in. He finds Treville and Aramis sitting against the wall, near the armchair. Aramis is leaning against Treville, head on the older man’s shoulder, eyes closed. Treville motions him in.

“He’s been asleep for the last half-hour,” Treville says quietly.

“Sarah said it’s been a bad morning?” Athos takes a seat on the floor, back to the TV, facing Treville. Aramis is sandwiched between the armchair and Treville.

“It was a bad night that became a bad morning. He’s not really slept in a day, I think. Possibly more, but he won’t tell me.”

“And you’ve been down here with him since then?”

Treville nods tiredly.

“What’re you here about,” Treville asks. “It’s Saturday morning.”

“Research, about him.” Athos gives a nod in the direction of Aramis. “You told me to dig deeper.”

“If you’re here now, I’m guessing it’s not good.”

“How much do you know of the massacre he was involved in?”

“He was the only survivor. That’s about it. No one would say anything.”

“He was second-in-command on his team, mentoring under the commander. Much of the planning, apparently, was his doing. According to reports, he organized the mission and went out without permission from the higher-ups. He ignored reports of Taliban cells in that area. He led them straight into danger.”

“What are you saying?”

“He was given an OTH discharge.”

Treville remains silent.

“Did you know?” Athos looks straight at him.

“No.” Treville shakes his head gently. He has suspected something like this but hoped not.

“He can’t be on the task force with this. He can’t be a Musketeer.”

“It’s a mistake. Aramis wouldn’t do anything to earn anything less than honorable.”

“People change.”

“Not him. Not Aramis,” Treville whispers harshly.

Athos raises an eyebrow.

“There has to be something that happened. He’s never actually said what happened.”

“Then he needs to tell us or you.”

Treville sighs. “I’ll work on it. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Good luck,” Athos says. He hesitates a few seconds before getting up and leaving.

“He’s right. I shouldn’t be a Musketeer,” Aramis says quietly once Athos is gone.

“I don’t buy that for one second,” Treville says, looking down at Aramis. The man shifts away from him to lean against the wall, looking out forlornly at the opposite wall. “What happened, Aramis? I don’t understand this discharge.”

“It was my fault, sir. I organized the rescue plans for those school children, I led the mission, and I got them killed.”

“You didn’t have the rank to organize and lead a mission, Aramis. You were months out of your Seal training. And you’d never do anything that might put lives needlessly in danger. Tell me the details.”

“That’s what happened,” Aramis says plainly.

“Is that why you have the OTH?”

“They gave me two choices. That or a court-martial.”

“For botching a mission?”

“They all died. Two Seals teams and twenty children.” Aramis’ voice is hollow.

“Athos says you didn’t listen to key information. Are the reports true?”

“No,” Aramis says quickly. Then after a pause, he says, “I must’ve though.”

“Bullshit,” Treville spits out. “Aramis, you have the sharpest sight I’ve seen in years. You never made a mistake on a mission in ROTC, especially not when you were in command.”

“I don’t know.” Aramis pulls his legs up and hunches over, curling in on himself.

“Aramis, what happened?”

“Those were the choices, they said.” His voice is muffled as he’s burrowed his head into his knees. All Treville sees of his head is the close-cut hair.

“What happened?”

“They died, sir. All twenty-six of them. Before I knew it, they were all dead. Dead and dying. I tried to save them, the children at the least. But they died at my hands, my doing. I did it. I led them into danger, got them all killed.”

Treville listens to Aramis trail off into muttering, rocking back and forth. He puts an arm around the man, pulling him closer. They sit like that for a while, Aramis eventually falling silent. Treville goes over what he’s found out from Athos and Aramis.

“Aramis, you took two teams?”

He feels Aramis nod against his shoulder.

“How big were the teams?”

“Standard four-man teams,” Aramis says quietly.

“Where was the eighth man?”

“The commander wasn’t there. He had business to attend to,” Aramis says as if it were obvious.

“And left you in charge.”

“Wasn’t the first time.”

“Aramis, did you tell them this?” Treville turns to look at Aramis, forcing the younger man out of his position.

“They said I had no choice for going ahead with the mission without him there.”

“Why did you go ahead?”

“They were going to die, Treville. I had no choice. It was the best night and if we did nothing, they would be dead before we had another chance. I had no choice. I had to but they died anyway.” Aramis is back to muttering, rocking, but Treville thinks he knows enough now. He won’t push Aramis for more, not yet. Proving it won’t be easy but he’ll do what he has to, to right this wrong. He pulls Aramis back towards him, knowing that it will settle the man.

“I’ll do what I have to, Aramis. You don’t deserve this.” The younger man gives a little huff. “You’ve always fought for others, it’s time someone fights for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I mean no disrespect to the military or soldiers with this story. But in the US military, OTH, or other than honorable, discharges are not that uncommon and can really screw up a person’s life (I had to research this a bit). Really, anything other than an honorable discharge, apparently, can mess things up. I think it’s feasible that Aramis, wounded and dealing with PTSD as well as friendless, could get railroaded into taking an OTH discharge to cover up what really happened. He was trying to do the right thing but became the scapegoat. This sort of thing can be appealed but Aramis wouldn’t be in the mental position to do so. This means it’s time for Papabear Treville to step in. He has more clout anyway.


	22. The Frantic Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: fever) Aramis is forced to remain inside while the rest of his friends search for his sister and niece. (modernAU)

Porthos holds back a sigh as Aramis makes another frantic lap around the living room. He’s lost count of the number of laps the younger man’s made this afternoon but he has grown more distressed with each. His clothes are wrinkled and sweaty, his face reddened with stress.

“Why haven’t they called,” Aramis says, wringing his hands. “What’s taking them so long?”

“They’ll call when they find something,” Porthos says calmly. “Now, sit down before you make yourself sicker.” Part of the reason Aramis wasn’t out with the others was that he’d stayed out the past few days and nights in the cold and snow searching for clues. It was only when he’d nearly passed out coughing that they were able to wrangle him indoors.

Porthos watches as Aramis makes another circuit, coughing, sneezing, wheezing as he paces. The brightly colorful Christmas tree and piles of neatly wrapped presents belie the worry and panic that has descended over the house for the last few nights. This visit to see one of Aramis’ sisters, the youngest, was a gift from him, Athos, d’Artagnan, Constance, and Treville. Once they’d found out that Aramis hadn’t seen Maria in five years, since he vanished one night after a bad PTSD episode, they had hatched this plan. Of course, they’d run it past Aramis before booking anything and while the man hadn’t jumped for joy, they could see the underlying excitement. That, and fear.

But now, Maria and her daughter, Olivia, were missing. They’d gone out of town, to Peoria, to do some Christmas shopping Friday afternoon when a freak snowstorm hit, causing blizzard conditions. With much of I74 from Peoria to Champaign littered with cars that had either spun out or ran into another, finding them hasn’t been easy. Police and state troopers are doing what they can, but Aramis and the others have decided not to wait. It means walking stretches of the snow-packed highway and snow peppered fields in fierce winds and bitter temperatures.

“Where could they have gone, Porthos? And why, why now? Why would God rip them away from me now? Because of Afghanistan? Because I got other parents,… uncles, aunts,… peoples’ kids… killed?” Aramis’ last words are punctuated with chest-rattling coughs.

“They’re fine, ‘Mis. Maria is smart, you’ve told me that. She’s used to this weather. She knows what to do. It just takes time.” Porthos keeps his voice steady, calm.

“I know, I know. But…”

“It’s not punishment, either.” Porthos stands and gently grabs Aramis as he makes a turn past him, pulling the younger man down to sit on the couch.

“But there has to be a reason,” Aramis mutters. He tries to fight off Porthos, but the effort leads him to cough. Porthos holds him as he works through the fit. Before he can fall back against the couch, spent from the fit, Porthos pulls him against him. He’s not chilled, but the warmth of Porthos is comforting.

“You are not being punished, Aramis. You weren’t at fault in Afghanistan. The navy cleared you of any wrongdoing. And you’re not at fault here. It was the weather. No one saw it coming.”

Aramis is silent for several moments and Porthos thinks he might have finally dozed off. He doesn’t know when the man has gotten anything more than a twenty-minute catnap.

“I can’t lose her, Porthos. We were best friends growing up and then, when she took me in, I nearly hurt Oliva and vanished without an explanation. She thought I was dead, Porthos. For five years, I never told her I was okay. I never came to see her. And she welcomes me back with open arms. Like I’ve done nothing wrong.” Aramis might be crying or it might be the congestion. Porthos isn’t sure but he suspects it’s the former.

“Five years is a long time, but remember Aramis, part of that was you getting yourself back to being functional. That first year you could’ve never dealt with your family, not with everything else you had going on.”

“But I should’ve called sooner.” Aramis sniffs loudly and Porthos reaches for a box of Kleenex. Aramis takes a few to use.

“Yeah, you should’ve called sooner but you’re human as much as you’d like to deny it. You weren’t ready yet.”

Aramis gives a wet snort.

“Took you guys to get me down here. I didn’t even have the courage to come down myself.”

“You could’ve said no.” Porthos shrugs his shoulders, leaning back against the couch. He settles Aramis down so that his head is lying in his lap.

“Didn’t occur to me to do that.”

“You just needed some support and that’s what are friends for.”

“And searching for my sister and niece, apparently. Which is where I should be.” Aramis gets back to his feet suddenly and Porthos just manages to hold back a curse. He nearly had the man settled.

“We’ve gone over this, you can’t be out there. You’re already sick. The cold air and wind is only going to make it worse. Do you have any common sense or did that head wound knock it all out of you? What do you think it’d do to them to know that you died looking for them,” Porthos nearly shouts. Aramis’ look of shock makes him regret the tone and words but he couldn’t help it. He’s frustrated by Aramis’ desire to go back out and the weather that is making it impossible to easily resolve this situation.

Aramis’ mouth opens and closes a few times then he walks away, out of the living room. Porthos follows him and sees him getting suited up again, coughing and wheezing with each movement.

“You can’t go out there. How’re you going to get out to the search site? You don’t have a car to drive.” Porthos’ voice is rising without his permission.

“I’ll walk then,” Aramis snaps back, tying his shoelace tight.

“You’re going to freeze out there and then how will we find you to rescue you.” Porthos can’t help the accusatory tone.

“Don’t worry about it. You can find me in the spring thaw seeing as how I’m going to die out there because I have no common sense,” Aramis spits back. He’s pulling on his jacket now, zipping up the lighter jacket tucked inside to provide extra warmth. It’s then that the door opens with a cacophony of noise.

Everyone, his friends, his brother-in-law, everyone who went out to search streams back in. Though Aramis is dazed by the sudden commotion, he doesn’t miss Maria or Oliva, happy, healthy, alive.

He pushes his way through to them, hugging them tightly, giving each a kiss on their forehead, and then hugging them again. He doesn’t let go, not even when Athos pushes them further in so he can close the door.

“What’s going on? Why’s Aramis dressed up to go out again,” Athos asks.

“He was getting worried. Thought you guys might’ve needed some help looking,” Porthos answers, voice uncharacteristically even.

“How was he coming? Walking?”

“We were just discussing that.” Porthos gives Aramis a look, which the man misses.

Athos looks between the two men. Something happened and while it needs to be resolved it’s been overshadowed by the sibling reunion.

“Where were you? We’ve been looking for days,” Aramis asks once he pulls himself away from Maria and Olivia.

“I managed to get us off the interstate safely but we were on a country road with nothing but a farmhouse in sight and the car was dead and we had no gas. The couple was happy to welcome us into their home for a few days until we could get help,” Maria explains.

“And they had no power,” Oliva says. “They sure had a lot of candles, though.”

“I’m sorry that we worried you. Athos says you’ve been a nervous wreck.”

Aramis drops his head, remembering his anger at Porthos. He wasn’t ready to forgive the man, but the sight of his sister and niece back home was enough to put it to the back burner for a while.

“I couldn’t bear to lose my little sister or my favorite niece,” Aramis says with a smile and hugs them both again. Slowly and with a lot of prodding Athos and Constance convince the three to take off their coats and boots and sit in the living room in front of the fire that d’Artagnan got going. Porthos hands each a mug of hot chocolate.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly after he hands Aramis his mug. “I said things I shouldn’t’ve. I was just worried about losing you out in this weather. I couldn’t bear that.”

“I’m sorry, too. I wasn’t thinking about anything except them. I’d die for them, for any of you. You all mean more to me than anything.”

“I know, but we’d much rather have you alive and annoying us like a little brother than dead.”

Aramis chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. He recognizes it as Porthos’ recipe, the one his mother taught him.

“I will try to keep that in mind.”

“That’s all I ask. Now drink that, then you need to get some sleep. You have a cold to get over.”

Aramis doesn’t protest. Instead, he smiles, looking around at his family, the ones by blood and by choice and finds he is grateful for each one of them. He understands Porthos’ plea but it’s not an easy task. There’s not a single one in this room he wouldn’t lay himself down for.


	23. The Phone Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: grief): Aramis bolts after a phone call. Constance comes to his rescue. (modernAU)

As Aramis stands, tucked in the alleyway to protect against the wind, he knows he will hear it from the others when he sees them. That is precisely the reason he called Constance, once he managed to convince the stranger that his badge was, in fact, real and he was an officer in distress. He also made sure to delete the call, a trick he learned from Athos.

That one-minute call feels like it was made hours ago but Aramis knows that it can’t have been more than a dozen or so minutes. It’s the cold and the snow and the wind that’s making the time drag. And it doesn’t help that in his rush from the building, he forgot his jacket. It was still light when he left, mid-afternoon if he remembers correctly. Now, the sun has set and he’s in his old haunting grounds. His clothes are muddy and wet both from tripping in his frantic run and the falling snow, which started just before sunset. He’s been shivering since he stopped running and realized where he was and is sure that he’ll get sick. The scrapes on his hands and face from not quite catching himself when he fell ache and sting.

Quite simply, he is miserable, both physically and emotionally.

When he sees a car turn the corner, he moves to step out of his makeshift shelter. But then the car zooms past and he catches the license plate to see that it’s not Constance. For a brief moment his little shelter feels warm with the lack of wind when he steps back in, but then the cold seeps back in and he shivers anew.

He shouldn’t’ve run. The others didn’t even know why. They were asking him what happened. He saw their mouths move, their questioning looks, but missed the shock and concern as he bolted. They might’ve made some connections if Athos was able to break through his phone. The man could do it, Aramis was sure of that. And while he normally wouldn’t breach Aramis’ privacy, this was not a normal occurrence.

Minutes later, when the shivering is tooth-rattling and he regrets not layering better today, Constance arrives. He waits this time for the car to stop fully before coming out of his shelter. When she yells his name out, he walks quickly over. Slipping is the last thing he needs for his day.

“Here.” Constance holds out a thick blanket, which he grabs right away and wraps around himself. Then he gets in and buckles up. But she doesn’t take off right away.

“They know I was coming to get you,” she says.

“Th…anks.” The shivers seem to be even more pronounced now despite the warmth that is gradually seeping in.

“They wanted to come with. I told them I’d keep them updated.”

“Thank… you.”

“And Treville gave me this.” She holds out an inhaler which he takes right away and uses. Running in the cold had aggravated his asthma.

She sends a quick text, which he guesses is to Athos and then takes off. They don’t speak on the drive for which he is grateful. The heater is up high and he knows that she must be sweating but it’s taking everything not to throw his face right in front of the vents to thaw it out. He’s not surprised when she takes him to her place instead of going home. All of them have spent a night at her place, him most of all.

When they get there, she is out first and just as he manages to undo his seatbelt and open the door, she is there with a hand to help him up. He doesn’t balk at the help, feeling like an old man as the temperature change has left his body aching. He stands, huddled pathetically in the now cold and wet blanket as she locks up the car and then turns to help him in her apartment. The elevator is broken, leaving them to climb three flights.

His wet clothes chafe and weigh him down nearly as much as his heart and mind but he keeps it to himself. Instead, he puts one foot in front of the other, thinking only about dry clothes and a hot shower. Slowly, they put the flights behind them.

“Why don’t you go get a shower and I’ll get something together for dinner,” Constance says once they’re in her apartment.

He nods and wanders off. He knows where everything is.

He can’t think of a better shower in more recent memory. He tries not to use all of the hot water, but he does. He doesn’t want to get out, sure that once he does the warmth, the comfort will be gone. He knows it will because then he will have to face the phone call.

But he does and not because the hot water runs out. He likes to think he’s the sort who doesn’t run from his problems but he does. He has. If nothing else, he can say that he will face them in time, his time.

He puts on his warmest clothes. Constance insisted when it became clear that her spare bedroom was a safe zone for them that they at least keep a couple spare sets of clothes there. He wears a pair of sweatpants, thick wool socks Athos found for him one Christmas, an undershirt, a long-sleeved shirt and a sweater, one his oldest sister knitted him and he is warm. More than that, he is cozy.

His scrapes cleaned and the worst of them bandaged, he pads out into the kitchen where Constance is just finishing up dinner.

“I don’t have much, but I thought I nice hot meal would help you warm up,” she says with a smile.

“You didn’t have to do anything. I’ve asked too much of you already.”

“It’s nothing. I had the extra chili in the fridge and the corn muffins took hardly any work. There’s some water in the kettle, which should be hot. You can make yourself some tea.”

“Thanks.” He goes to make the tea, keen to have something warm to drink.

“It’s what friends do, Aramis,” Constance says.

Aramis smiles, as he looks down at his tea brewing. This is why he likes Constance. He gets on well with the others, but there’s a special bond between him and Constance. More than any of the others, they’re on the same wavelength. She gets him in ways that frustrate the others.

“They’ve all sent their well-wishes and offer their help in whatever way they can,” Constance says.

“Thanks for dealing with them.”

“Well, you can’t really without your phone, can you?” She pulls the phone out of her pocket and puts it on the counter. He makes no move for it and she doesn’t say a word other than that dinner is ready.

They chat idly as they eat.

When the dishes are done and both are sitting in the living room with mugs of hot chocolate in their hands, Aramis wrapped in a blanket against the cold that he can still feel in his bones and what will come, they talk.

His phone has migrated from the kitchen counter to the coffee table. He can’t help but stare at it.

“How’re you doing,” Constance asks.

“Tired and cold.”

“I’m not surprised. You were miles from headquarters and sopping wet when I found you. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure how I got there,” Aramis says, closing his eyes. “All I remember is running.”

“Did you have a panic attack or a flashback?”

“Yeah but I don’t think I can tell you which right now. It’s not quite clear. I kept seeing Afghanistan and the massacre. I’m not sure how I came out of it.” He looks at her and shrugs his shoulders. “I was sitting in that alley when I realized where I was.” He remembers having the usual confusion and haziness that came with an episode.

“How are you feeling with them now?”

“Fine.” He shrugs again.

“You okay with talking about what happened?”

Aramis sighs and nods. He’s not but he knows he has to.

“Who called?” Her voice is quiet and reassuring. He sets the mug aside.

“I didn’t know them. I don’t know how they got my number,” he answers, voice flat. He squeezes his eyes shut at the memories. Then there’s a gentle hand rubbing against his.

“Aramis, who were they?”

“The parents of one of the children I got killed,” he answers with a strangled sob. Constance is next to him in an instant, mug set aside and a hand around him, pulling him close.

“You didn’t get them killed,” she says. Most days now he understands that but there are some days still that it doesn’t matter how many times they say it, how many ways, he will never believe it. She lets him work through his tears before continuing.

“What did they want?” She rubs a hand on his back.

“They’re going to be in the States to meet with some charities and politicians. They want to see me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Aramis says plainly.

“They didn’t say?”

“I didn’t hear. I blanked out after the visiting and ran out soon after that.”

“Oh. Well, maybe it’s something good.” She tries to be cheerful.

“No. They’re angry and they have every right to be. I got their child killed.”

“You didn’t but I know you’re not going to believe that right now, so I’ll leave it. But tomorrow and every day after that I’m going to remind you that you didn’t get them killed.” She pauses to let the words sink in. “Did they sound angry?”

“It was choppy. They were having a hard time speaking English. They didn’t know that I speak Pashto.”

“Well, I doubt you were able to speak.”

“No, I couldn’t.” Aramis shakes his head.

“Maybe it was just a misinterpretation,” Constance says.

“No.”

“You don’t know for sure unless you speak with them again.”

“I couldn’t.” Aramis’ face goes paler than it is already.

“You can because I’ll be there to help you. So will the others, probably, but I won’t speak for them.”

“I….”

“You need to,” she interrupts him. “You’re not going to be able to settle until you know what’s coming.”

Aramis sighs. She knows him well.

“You won’t be alone.” She reassures him, giving him a hug.

“I know. I know,” he mutters.

They’re silent for a while, Aramis enjoying the warmth and Constance’s steady presence.

“How mad are they,” Aramis asks.

“They’re not mad. They were puzzled and worried. They wanted to search for you.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t.”

“Treville convinced them it would be pointless for a few hours.”

“He knows me well.” Aramis smiles lightly.

“Anyway, I warned them before I left about giving you too much flack for this. Told them you had a good reason and that I wouldn’t stand for them bombarding you with questions and their concerns.”

“And that’s why I’m here?”

“Do you not want to be?” She turns to look at him.

“No, I’m happy here. I couldn’t face them tonight. I know they care but they’re overwhelming together.”

“Oh, I understand that.” She’d faced them all this evening right after Aramis called.

As they lapse back into silence, Aramis finds himself strangely content. He’s not thinking about his past or the phone call. He doesn’t fret over still having to deal with the call and the parents. Instead, he’s content and he thanks Constance for that.


	24. Fighting the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: drowning) Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan debate the best way to deal with a sick Aramis who refuses to stop working. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting. This one connects some with the last one, but it doesn't go where you might want it to. I'm planning to write the meeting of Aramis and the kid's parents, but I don't have time right now and I'm struggling with appropriate names as Afghani names are largely unfamiliar to me. A little more research is needed when I have more free time.

Athos watches Aramis work from the other side of the room, leaning against the doorframe of the breakroom. He has his mug filled with freshly made coffee and is waiting to see how long before Aramis gives up the ship.

“How long has he been going,” Porthos asks, walking up next to Athos. He has his own mug of coffee in hand.

“Not a break since morning. No lunch break either. He’s gone to the bathroom and for coffee, but nothing else.” Athos takes a sip of his coffee.

“I thought he would’ve given up by now.”

“Really.” Athos turns to Porthos with an eyebrow raised. “This is Aramis, the man who’s been shot three times and gotten back up like it was nothing, the man who took a stab wound and didn’t tell us until he collapsed hours later on our way to the train station.”

“I know, I know, but it’s clear he’s miserable. With that fever and headache, he can barely see straight enough to type, let alone read anything he’s researching.”

“He is quite stubborn.” Athos sighs. It is just a few days after Aramis took his sudden run in the dead of winter, without a jacket. He’d spent some five hours out in the cold, windy weather. Then it had snowed. And when he called, it wasn’t one of them. It was Constance. Athos couldn’t help but be hurt by that. He understood but it still hurt.

And Aramis has yet to deal with the phone call. Instead, he’s focused on their current case. They’ve seen him like this before.

“So, what are we going to do,” Porthos asks, taking a long drink from his mug.

“Well, we could stop him or do what we always do,” Athos drawls.

“Let him go until he passes out?”

Athos nods, drinking.

“And does that really do any good?”

Athos gives a noncommittal shrug.

“What’s going on?” d’Artagnan has joined them, standing behind the two, looking over their shoulders at Aramis.

Athos waves his half-empty mug in the direction of Aramis.

“Are we letting him go this time,” the young man asks. He’s seen this once and been told about a couple other times that were worse than the one he saw.

“Debating that,” Porthos says.

“I honestly think you three should just go rescue him from himself,” Constance says, pushing past them to leave the break room.

“And you think he’d accept such an act,” Porthos asks.

“You could try it instead of standing here watching him.”

“So, why don’t you go do it,” Porthos challenges. It’s not from a lack of care that they haven’t. Rather it’s because they know Aramis well enough that he will have to reach the limits of his body before he gives in. It’s habit.

“Because I have work I have to get to and you don’t because he’s done it all while he’s sick while you three have been watching.”

“We’ve been working,” d’Artagnan answers quickly.

“I know but he’s gotten you ahead. I’m sure if Treville knew, he’d let you four go or at least one of you with Aramis.”

With that, Constance walks back to her work upstairs where she was currently assigned during her cadet phase. Athos and Porthos exchange glances, then look at Aramis, who is in the middle of a sneezing fit that has his eyes watering and snot dripping from his nose. Wordlessly, they move forward to take care of Aramis.

Bad habits should be broken anyway.

“Alright, Aramis, it’s quitting time for you,” Athos says.

“’m ‘ine,” Aramis says with a sniffle. “I still have work to do.”

“You’ve done enough, ‘Mis.” Porthos stands on the other side.

“But I have to keep going,” Aramis mutters.

“No, you don’t,” Athos says quietly, kneeling down to face the man at eye level.

“But if I don’t… if I don’t….” Aramis breaks off, coughing. He’s still not looking at either of them, bleary eyes trained on the too bright screen in front of him.

“You’re sick, ‘Mis,” d’Artagnan says, standing in front of the desk.

“If you don’t keep working, then what,” Porthos asks.

“Then…” Aramis coughs and sniffs. “Then I have to…”

Athos looks up at Porthos. They know what this is about, but they’ll wait for him to say it.

“I’m fine. I’m just going to keep working.” Aramis returns to the document on the screen in front of him. He hopes that the others will leave, return to their work. They do still have a couple hours left in the day. But he knows they won’t go anywhere. Not now. The text in front of him is fuzzy and no amount of blinking will change that. He sighs, putting his head in his hands, elbows resting on the desk. When he tries to take a deep breath, it easily turns to a coughing spell that he lacks the energy to hide or stop.

He is tired, cold, and sick. More than anything, he wants to go home and curl up under the blankets on the couch in the den with the TV buzzing lowly on an endless stream of old movies, the fireplace going, and sleep the cold and memories away.

One of them, Athos he realizes, rubs a hand on his back. He moves his own hands to his stomach and chest as if holding his abdomen will ease the coughing. When he’s done, out of breath, he takes a deep breath, unthinking. And the coughing turns to retching within seconds. Nothing comes up because he hasn’t been able to eat for many reasons. But the effort sends him out of his chair, forwards, then sideways. There are familiar hands helping him down to the cold, hard tile. The waste basket is next to him, but he knows he won’t need it. Instead, he sinks back on to the worn wooden hands of his desk.

When at last he stops, gets control back, he keeps himself still, his breaths light and steady. It’s barely enough to sustain him but his throat, his headache, his body cannot take the coughing anymore.

“’Mis?”

He opens his eyes to see Porthos there with a cup of water. He wants to take it, to not be helped like an invalid to take a simple sip of water but he can’t find the energy to fight it. And when the cup is taken away after that small sip, he can’t help the moan of displeasure either.

“In a few minutes, ‘Mis,” Porthos says without humor or pity.

Aramis nods, resting his eyes again. His head pounds and his chest aches. He can’t argue with them now, he realizes. Even Treville has to have heard his racket and will probably send him home regardless.

“I know,” he says, opening his eyes again to look at the three worried faces of his friends.

“We’re glad that you finally get it but why don’t you want to stop,” Athos says. He knows that now is perhaps not the fairest time to ask Aramis, but the man needs to say aloud what they already know.

“I just… didn’t want to,” Aramis says, trying to keep his breathing steady.

Athos opens the top side drawer and pulls out his inhaler. Aramis takes it without complaint and uses it. In time, if he’s caught it early, it’ll ease the wheezing that is taking hold. Given the coughing though, he’s sure he’s going to be spending some time with his nebulizer.

“Try again, Aramis,” Athos says.

Aramis gives an unsteady sigh, not sure if it will provoke anything.

“I just… I didn’t… If I… If I don’t work then I think about them,” Aramis finishes in a rush.

“Them,” Porthos asks.

“Them,” Aramis says.

“The parents or the children,” Athos asks.

“Both? Does it matter?”

“Yes, because one’s in the past and one is present,” Porthos says.

“Not to me,” Aramis says quietly.

“That’s not always the case, is it?” There’s deep, familiar concern in Porthos’ voice.

“No.” Aramis shakes his head.

“It’s because of that phone call,” Athos says.

Aramis nods.

“Look, you know already that you’re going to have to deal with them. Not alone, of course. But right now, you’re sick and you need to deal with that first.”

“But I don’t want to think about them.”

“’Mis, I’m sure once we get you home and settled on the couch in the den with some old movies going, the fireplace turned up, and covered in blankets, you’re going to be too tired to even want to think about them,” Porthos says.

Aramis gives him a skeptical look.

“Did I miss anything?”

“No, but…”

“If you’re feeling better tomorrow, we’ll work on it, start putting this back in the past,” Athos says.

Aramis nods. Porthos helps him drink some more water while d’Artagnan lets Treville know that Aramis and Athos are headed home. Though Porthos would like to be there to help Aramis, he knows that the younger man prefers Athos when he’s ill. And it’s only a couple more hours, then they can head home and sit with him as he battles fevered nightmares and coughs until he’s spent. It’ll be some sleepless nights for them but they’ll do anything for Aramis, just like he would for them.


	25. An Unexpected Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: gagged) Porthos and Athos meet Aramis for one of the first times and are met with an unexpected situation. (modernAU)

Treville will be the first to admit that grilling in February, with a foot of snow on the ground, and the temperature in the teens, is not his best of decisions. The kids are enjoying it though. He’s invited Athos and Porthos over and Ben and Tim are lapping up the extra attention. With Sarah nearly eight months pregnant and him busy with work as well as Aramis, neither have been able to spend much time with the boys.

The whole get together, actually, he planned for Aramis and he, it seems, is the one person not enjoying it. In fact, he’s yet to leave the den. Treville wants him to come out but he won’t force the man, even if he spends the whole afternoon in there.

“Do you want me to go in there,” Athos asks, startling him. Treville is standing watch by the back door, waiting until it’s time to go back out to check on the grill. Athos moves next to him, back leaning against the sliding door.

“Don’t know how much good that would do,” Treville says.

“That’s why you asked us over, isn’t it? To start to befriend him?”

Treville’s not surprised that Athos saw through his little ruse. Porthos probably did too. There is a reason that they are the top crime-solving team despite being the only two-man team.

“I’m not going to force him though.” There had been enough forced upon the young man already, from the responsibility for leading a mission he had no training to do to taking the blame for the failure of said mission. The repercussions of it all have devastated Aramis, leaving the young man nearly unrecognizable to Treville. Treville tries his best but with no access to the services and health care Aramis needs, the last couple months have been taxing. He is grateful that Sarah wants to help Aramis as much as he does as they have been footing all of his medical bills.

“I think someone is taking care of that,” Athos says, nodding in the direction of the hallway. Treville turns to see Ben pulling Porthos along, down towards the den.

Treville is already moving to stop Ben, but Athos stops him.

“I’ll take care of it.” Athos gives him a small reassuring smile. He hasn’t had many dealings with Aramis beyond the Christmas party and a few other times when Treville has needed help. Athos quickly catches up with Porthos and Ben.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Porthos whispers to Athos.

“I think it is. My understanding is that he’s had hardly any contact in months. I get the sense from Treville that that’s not normal for him,” Athos says.

“What do you know about him?”

“What I’ve told you before. He’s a veteran dealing with PTSD and depression.”

Ben leads Porthos into the room, ignoring their conversation and Athos follows.

“Hi, Aramis. I brought one of my friends to come see you,” Ben says brightly.

Aramis watches them as they enter.

“He doesn’t always talk,” Ben says, turning to Porthos. “When he doesn’t, I just sit on the couch and talk.” Ben pulls Porthos to the couch. Athos follows and they all sit awkwardly on the couch, except for Ben. He is busy talking, not picking up on the tension.

“How long do we stay,” Porthos asks minutes later when Aramis is yet to talk.

“For a while longer,” Athos says. “Let’s see if he might talk.” Porthos doesn’t know yet that Treville wants Aramis on the task force. Until they can get the OTH discharge overturned, Treville wants it kept secret. Athos isn’t quite sure that Aramis even knows.

Ben continues on talking for a while longer. Athos tries not to count the minutes but it’s hard when he is left sitting there listening to a four-year-old keep up a string of conversation about largely pointless topics, jumping from one thing to another in a flash. A glance to Aramis shows him that the younger man finds this comforting as he’s relaxed some since Ben started talking.

It's probably a half-hour in when Ben’s stomach growls loudly.

“Why don’t you go see if your dad’s almost done. Get some of the snacks,” Porthos says.

Ben looks at him, then Athos, and finally to Aramis, who gives a slight nod, a nod that he would be fine with Athos and Porthos. After Ben leaves, slowly, reluctantly, with a glance over his shoulder at the three of them, Aramis remains silent.

“How’re you doing,” Athos says.

Aramis looks at him but remains silent.

“Maybe he doesn’t like be talked to,” Porthos says, voice just above a whisper. “I mean Ben was just talking about whatever.”

“You mean a random stream of narration?” Athos raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“Right.” Athos huffs lightly. “I’m not the man for that task.”

“I know,” Porthos says knowingly. Athos is not a man known for his words.

“So, why don’t you try it.”

“I don’t even know the man. What do I say,” Porthos hisses.

“How about introducing yourself?”

Porthos gives Athos a glare but clears his throat as he thinks of what to say. He opens his mouth when there’s a loud clatter and bang, followed by a scream and crying from outside the den.

Inside the den, Aramis instantly goes on alert, his eyes go wide, and his breathing picks up. Athos sees him getting to his feet in a trance, muttering. When the young man moves to the door, instinct pushes Athos quickly to his feet and he throws himself against the door, shutting it to keep Aramis inside, away from whatever is going on outside that has triggered him. Athos has seen flashbacks before. He’s seen the aftermath of Aramis’ a couple times but not yet a flashback itself.

Then, he is fighting off a frantic Aramis, who is muttering in a language he doesn’t recognize or understand.

“Athos,” Porthos questions, moving to help Athos. He’s ready to pull Aramis back, using his strength to psychically restrain the thinner, weaker man.

“Don’t,” Athos nearly yells. “He’s having a flashback. Something about the noise outside must’ve triggered him.”

“So, what do I do?” Porthos is not unfamiliar with flashbacks. Working as a police officer before joining the Musketeers, he’s seen his fellow officers and some victims of crimes go through flashbacks. He’s had his own, too. But here he is lost, with no context, no understanding neither of them has a clue about how to get through to Aramis. The one man who does, Treville, is busy dealing with the accident outside.

“Do you understand anything he’s saying,” Athos asks.

“Arabic, maybe?” It doesn’t sound like anything he hears around the city.

“Don’t suppose you understand any of it?”

“No.” Porthos shakes his head.

“Alright, pull him back but gently.” Athos is losing the battle against Aramis’ arms, taking a few haphazardly thrown punches. They won’t leave a mark, but cumulatively they’re aching.

“Come on, Aramis,” Porthos says gently. “You’re hurting Athos. You need to calm down.” He puts a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and it is subsequently violently thrown off. Porthos gives the man a warning, letting him know that he’s going to restrain him, counts to three, and wraps his arms around the man’s thin body, pinning the arms to his side.

Aramis wails and kicks and squirms.

And Porthos, who has known Aramis for some thirty minutes, feels guilty.

The noise and flailing unexpectedly tears at their hearts.

“Can you get him over next to the armchair,” Athos asks. He’s glad to be free of the onslaught of Aramis’ hands, but he sees the struggle Porthos is having and the distress Aramis is in. “He likes being over there.”

Porthos grunts and picks Aramis up off the ground to walk him over.

“Let’s sit down here,” Athos says gently, trying to capture Aramis’ attention.

Still, Aramis fights them.

“How about I just sit in the armchair with him in my lap like this,” Porthos suggests, voice strained from the effort of holding Aramis.

“Sure.” Athos nods.

Sitting with a grown man in his lap isn’t easy but Porthos manages.

“You’re fine,” Porthos says calmly. “You’re at Treville’s house. In the den. There’s no danger here. It’s just cold and snowy. I think we’re even supposed to get another half a foot on top of what we have and then it’ll plunge down even colder.” Porthos keeps up his steady stream of commentary until his voice goes dry. Then Athos picks it up from where he’s settled on the floor in front of the armchair, facing Aramis and Porthos.

Neither man is sure how long it takes but eventually Aramis comes back to reality with a shudder and a choked sob. Porthos tries to soothe him again, but he’s not accepting it. Aramis forces his way out of Porthos’ grasp, though the bigger man doesn’t hold tight. Porthos does find himself feeling a bit empty with Aramis having spurned his attempts at comfort.

Aramis finds his usual spot, huddled tightly against the armchair, legs pulled up, head down as he rocks back and forth, sniffling, crying.

Athos and Porthos share a look. Athos moves to sit next to Aramis as he’s seen Treville do and Porthos sits about a foot in front of Aramis, facing him. When Athos puts an awkward hand on Aramis’ back the man jumps, tensing before Athos shushes him gently and reassures him that it’s just them. That it seems is enough for Aramis though Athos suspects the man is too worn to care.

It’s several minutes later, perhaps close to a half-hour when Aramis is calm. He’s spent, body quaking with the effort of maintaining itself in front of two strangers.

“Let it go, Aramis,” Porthos says calmly, rubbing one of the man’s hands gently to encourage him.

“No, no,” Aramis mutters, voice thin and scratchy. “Can’t… speak.”

“Here, lean against me.” Athos reaches his arm around Aramis and pulls him towards him. There’s a moment when Athos fears he’s triggered another flashback but then Aramis goes slack. When they notice the shivering, Porthos grabs a blanket from the couch and wraps it around Aramis the best he can.

“What do you suppose happened that left him with such bad flashbacks,” Porthos asks quietly. He’s not sure if Aramis is asleep but his breathing is calmer.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Athos says.

“He can’t be more than twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. And to have experienced such a traumatic event...” Porthos trails off.

“He’s twenty-six,” Treville says quietly from behind them, coming to sit next to Porthos. “I remember when he turned twenty-one, he kept getting turned away from bars because they believed he had a fake ID. Once they called the police to take him back home, believing he was a minor.” Treville smiles fondly.

“How are things,” Athos asks.

“Fine. Tim had a small accident, cut his hand helping Sarah. We took him to urgent care. I’m sorry we couldn’t let you know and left you two to deal with Aramis.”

“It’s fine. Your family needed your help,” Porthos says.

“He’s family, too. But I understand. He had a flashback, I’m gathering.”

“Yeah,” Athos says. “We’re not sure what did it though.”

There’s a moment of silence then Porthos speaks.

“What happened to him,” he asks.

“I can’t say,” Treville says with a tired sigh.

“He hasn’t told you? But how’re you going forward with the appeal,” Athos asks.

“No, he’s told me. He wasn’t supposed to though. And I can’t say anything.”

“A gag order?”

“It must be serious then,” Porthos says.

“It is and all I will say is that it’s not his fault,” Treville says.

“Is that why he doesn’t talk?”

“I don’t know. It might be. He does speak occasionally. If only I could get him in to a psychiatrist, he could start to work through this and get better. Instead, he’s stuck with flashbacks, panic attacks, depression, anxiety. The entire book, it feels like and it must be hell on him to not know when something will happen. No one decent will help him without insurance or prices I can’t afford.”

“The OTH discharge,” Athos asks.

“It blocks him from every type of aid given to veterans. It doesn’t have to, but he has some people who are out for him, it seems. It’s taking all of my favors to get this pushed through.”

Porthos looks at the younger man, resting calmly, finally, against Athos. He trusts Treville. If he’s working this hard to clear Aramis’ name, then Aramis must be a good man, he must be worth it. And truthfully, in the short time he’s been around Aramis he too has gotten the sense that he’s worth it, already feeling a small wave of protectiveness for the man.

 


	26. The Emergency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: outnumbered) Aramis takes a nasty fall when looking after Treville's kids. (modernAU)

Aramis opens his eyes to three faces, small faces that don’t look anything like what he’s used to waking up to when his body aches. Something happened that wasn’t good, that much he recalls. One of them calls his name. He turns to the sound and then it hits him. These are Treville and Sarah’s children and he is meant to be babysitting them while their parents are enjoying a day to themselves.

“’Mis, you okay?” That’s Meg. She had a hard time with their names when she was younger and, even though she can now pronounce them correctly, has stuck with her nicknames for them.

“What happened?” He tries to lift his head but the attempt to lift it sends the constant ache roaring and pulls on his neck. Aramis can’t help the moan that seeps from his mouth as he settles back down.

“Our frisbee flew into the tree,” Ben says. “You tried to get it down but slipped and fell.”

“That… that would explain it.” Aramis closes his eyes against the pain.

“Explain what?”

Aramis opens his eyes again, seeing now the nervousness and worry in each of the children’s faces.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he says, pushing the pain aside. “The fall just winded me.”

“Are you sure?” Tim, the oldest of the three, gives him a skeptical look.

“Yeah, you didn’t wake up for a long time,” Meg says.

“I’m just winded,” Aramis insists and hopes that these three are not the keen observers his friends are.

“We tried calling you, but you didn’t wake up,” Ben says.

“I’m fine.” Aramis tries to put more strength into the words, more certainty. Then, to prove his point, he forces himself up, his elbows propping him part way off the ground. He would go further but the movement makes his vision darken, sound fade, his head go fuzzy, and his abdomen ache.

“You probably shouldn’t move,” Tim says, despite Aramis’ movements. “I saw on TV that when you fall from heights you shouldn’t move because you might hurt your back and wind up paralyzed.”

“Don’t move, ‘Mis,” Meg cries out, pushing him back down. Ben joins in, echoing her sentiments. It’s far too easy for the six and ten-year-old to push him back to the ground. His arms give out under the pressure and he collapses to the hard ground with a loud wince. His breath leaves him again as his back and chest ignite in sharp, stabbing pain. He cannot help but roll over, trying to ease the pressure on both sides.

“Aramis?” That’s Tim. He recognizes the young teenager’s voice even in the midst of pain.

“Fine,” Aramis croaks out. “I..m ‘ine.” He’s trying to get his breathing under control if only his back and chest would stop. And he can’t move anymore to ease the stress because his entire abdomen hurts.

“You’re not fine,” Tim says. “I’m calling Athos.”

“No,” Aramis gasps out between waves of pain. “D’n’t.” Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan are at the Cubs game, a birthday gift from the three of them to d’Artagnan. When Treville had asked them to look after the kids, Aramis readily volunteered. Baseball wasn’t his sport. He more enjoyed soccer.

“But he’ll know what to do.” Tim may be a teenager, but he’s still a kid and worried.

“Just give me… a minute.”

“You’ve already had a minute,” Meg says easily. Aramis closes his eyes so he doesn’t glare at her. She’s picked up snark from the four of them so quickly.

“Let me catch my… breath then.” His back has eased some, but his chest and stomach are still hurting. He hears them talking, whispering perhaps because he can’t make out any of it. Then one of them reaches into his pants’ pocket, on the side he is currently leaning against, and pulls out his phone.

He can’t help the cry at the movement. They take his hand to unlock the phone, which causes more pain and takes his breath away again. He curls up, holding his hands against his aching stomach. His head turned into the ground, he tries to hold back the cries and groans that would put the kids more on edge, the sounds that would only marginally help him. For a few minutes, he is lost in his pain, trying to keep it in, and wishing that one of his friends were here to help.

Then, as the pain recedes to slightly less than an overwhelming throb, he hears Tim talking.

“I don’t know. It was a bit,” he says.

There’s a pause.

“He was a little confused, but he hasn’t been able to get up. He’s curled up, holding his stomach.” Aramis hears the barely controlled panic in Tim’s voice.

“I... can talk… to ‘thos,” Aramis says. He tries to roll back and reach for the phone, but his body refuses the movement without blinding pain.

“It’s not Athos,” Ben says.

Aramis gives him a questioning look.

“It’s 911,” Meg announces.

Aramis groans.

“They want to know where you hurt, ‘Mis.” Tim turns to him.

“Head, back,… chest, arms,… and stomach,” he lists. There’s little sense in lying at this point, not with the kids there. Tim relays the information.

“Where does it hurt the most?”

“Stoma… argh.” A fresh jolt of pain interrupts him and he hopes that Tim has the information he needs because he might be passing out or throwing up, he’s not sure which will come first.

Then the world fades and the last thing he hears is Ben’s frantic pleas to stay awake. The last thing he feels is not pain but disappointment in himself for failing the kids.

When he awakes, he is coughing, hacking, and it quickly turns to vomiting.

“He’s throwing up,” one of the kids says.

“She says to turn him on his side, quick,” another one says.

Aramis tries to help the three sets of hands, small hands, turn him on his side but he hurts and he’s panicking. It’s an effort but the three manage without his help to reposition him. One of them plants their body against his back, holding him on his side because he doesn’t have the coordination.

Vomiting is more painful than he thought. It reignites every pain, tearing at his throat. His stomach and chest weaken with every heave as his ribs move and throb.

“It’s red,” one of the kids says.

Aramis is with it just enough to know that’s not good, but he can’t place why. It’s seriously bad though.

They move him away from the vomit, muttering apologies at the gasps that he can’t help. He hovers on alertness, catching words, phrases, and worried glances. He loves these kids but he wants Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan. He doesn’t want these kids to have to be witness to this.

Then, there’s commotion at the back door. Strangers that Aramis hopes are paramedics.

“Good afternoon, sir,” a young woman says, kneeling down in front of him with a box in hand.

He gives a smile in lieu of speaking.

“I’m Anne and my partner is Paul. We got a call that you fell and haven’t been able to get back up. They said you have pain in your stomach and you’ve vomited blood. Is that correct?”

Aramis nods.

“Can you roll onto your back,” she asks.

“’urts,” Aramis squeezes out.

“We’ll be gentle. It’s going to be easier to examine you if you’re on your back.”

Aramis nods reluctantly. Between her and Paul, they get Aramis on his back. It still hurts but they are very gentle about it.

“I’m going to pull up your shirt. You need to move your hands so I can take a look.”

He hesitates in moving his hands but he does forcing himself to put them to his side and she slowly lifts his shirt.

“I’m going to push down a little on your stomach. This may hurt,” she warns and gives him a few seconds to prepare himself. It does no good as the first light push makes his vision go white and then black.

When he wakes he is pain-free and fuzzy-headed. There’s a gentle beeping and then he’s out again.

The next time he wakes is much the same.

It’s perhaps the fourth time, though he really can’t be sure, that he feels more clear-headed. He opens his eyes, something he thinks he might’ve done before but now he clearly sees his concerned friends and Treville arranged around the room.

“You with us this time, ‘Mis,” Porthos asks.

“U…m…” his voice cracks. d’Artagnan helps him get a few sips of water. He swallows a few times, letting the water soothe the dryness and then he remembers.

“Ben, Tim, and Meg,” Aramis says, wincing at his unintended movement. “How are they?”

“Stop moving,” Treville scolds lightly. “You’re lucky they thought to call 911 when they did. You were bleeding internally, you know.”

“How are they,” Aramis repeats.

“They’re worried about you.”

“Where are they?” Aramis tries to sit up further to look around, gasping at the pain that creeps past the morphine.

“Stop moving,” Athos says harshly, standing to gently push Aramis back onto the bed. “You’re in the ICU. Children aren’t allowed in here.”

“Neither are… four people… at once,” Aramis retorts, working through the pain.

“Special circumstances,” Treville says. “They know you here.”

“I want to see them.”

“Once you get into a regular room, you can see them,” Porthos says. “We’ve let them know that you’re doing better. They were really scared.”

“That bad?”

“You’ve been in here for three days, ‘Mis,” Porthos says, voice serious. “Your blood pressure tanked on the ride in. It was touch and go during surgery. They nearly lost you once.”

“Oh,” Aramis says quietly.

“On top of internal bleeding, you have a handful of broken ribs, a concussion, a broken arm, and severe bruising all over your abdomen.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad. It was just a tree.”

“The branch you were on, according to the kids, was ten feet off the ground,” Athos says. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse, to be honest.”

“I know, I know. But, please, can I just see the kids. I want them to see that I’m okay,” Aramis says. Their worried faces stand out in his mind.

Athos looks to Porthos, then to Treville, who sighs.

“I’ll talk to them and see if they’ll let the kids up. They were rather disappointed to not be able to see you,” Treville says.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll go talk to them if you promise to get some rest. Don’t try to move.” Treville’s voice is stern and he makes sure to catch Aramis’ gaze before leaving.

It’s late in the evening when the kids arrive. The doctor and nurses were surprisingly willing to let the children visit once Treville explained the situation. Aramis and the others are, unfortunately, frequent visitors to this hospital and the staff was willing to give them some allowances. In exchange for the visit, the doctor ordered Aramis to sleep, which he was all too willing to do. The short conversation with his friends drained him.

He awakes to Treville and Sarah warning the kids not to jump on the bed. Waking is easier this time than last but when he opens his eyes, he sees the three kids standing nervously in a line near their parents.

“Come here,” he says, voice a little scratchy. Treville gets him some water. “I’m fine,” Aramis says again, trying to coax the kids to move closer.

“You weren’t though,” Tim says. There’s a mix of accusing and sadness in his voice.

“I know,” Aramis says, keeping his eyes on the three of them. “But I am now, thanks to the three of you. You knew that it was serious, that something was really wrong, and you did the right thing in not listening to me. Calling 911 saved my life.” Aramis pauses before continuing. “Thank you,” he says as sincerely as he can manage as exhaustion starts to creep back in.

The children are still hesitant.

“Come here, please,” Aramis says.

“Mom and dad said we have to be careful,” Ben says.

“You do, but you can come closer. I won’t break.”

Aramis isn’t surprised that after a moment Ben is the first to step forward, followed by Meg.

“We thought you were gonna die,” Ben says.

“Not with the three of you around.” Aramis gives a slight smile.

“It was really scary but Anne and Paul were really nice,” Meg says.

“I bet it was scary.”

Aramis listens as Meg and Ben go back and forth talking about the ambulance and waiting in the ER. They had quite the afternoon apparently. Still, Tim hangs back. Aramis sneaks a look at Treville, catching the man’s attention and then looks to Tim, hoping the man will pick up on his idea.

“Hey, Meg, Ben, let’s go see about getting Aramis some more water,” Treville says, realizing what Aramis wants. Sarah goes along with Treville and the two children, leaving Tim with Aramis.

“You did really good, Tim. You stepped up when you had to, took charge. That was brave of you to call 911,” Aramis says, not waiting, knowing that he is growing more tired as the minutes pass.

Tim remains quiet, looking down at the floor.

“I’m sorry for what happened, Tim,” Aramis says.

There’s a sniffle from Tim.

“Tim, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“You almost died, ‘Mis,” Tim says, glancing up at Aramis, then looking down.

“Have you talked to your parents?”

“Yeah, but...” Tim shrugs his shoulders as he trails off.

“I almost died,” Aramis finishes.

Tim nods.

“Come here, Tim.” Aramis pats a free spot on the bed. Aramis thinks he has an idea of what’s going on. Tim knows that his dad and friends are in dangerous situations and emergencies frequently, but this is the first time he’s been witness to an emergency and there was no adult present, no comforting presence to take charge. Aramis wasn’t able to string more than a few words together.

“Dad said I’m not supposed to.”

“And I’ve said I won’t break. Now, grab that chair and climb up here.”

Tim hesitates for a second but does get the chair and carefully climbs onto the bed, sitting still next to Aramis’ legs.

“You have to understand, Tim, that while this was bad, you did good. You didn’t panic. You took charge and did what you knew you needed to do. You were very brave in doing that. Not many thirteen-year-olds would know what to do.”

“Dad taught us what to do in emergencies and you and Athos and Porthos always remind us.”

“And you did good. I’m proud of you.”

There’s a pause before Tim speaks again.

“I thought I did something wrong. You kept getting worse and then you threw up blood when you were just waking up.”

“It was bad, but you kept your head.”

“I was scared. I thought… I thought…” Tim breaks off as the tears begin to flow.

“Come here, Tim,” Aramis says gently, patting the empty space near his chest.

Tim shakes his tear-streaked red face.

“I won’t break. You need an Aramis-hug and I can’t sit up to give you one, so you’ll have to come here. Please,” he adds.

Tim hesitantly moves forward and Aramis moves out his right arm, the one without the cast. Tim lays down on his side, his head near Aramis’ shoulders. Aramis brings the arm up gently for a one-armed hug. It’s not up to his usual standards, but he knows it’s what the boy needs. As Tim works through his tears, Aramis waits and reminds him that everything is okay. He may be a teenager, Aramis thinks, watching and holding Tim, but he’s definitely still a kid who needs reassurance.

When the others return, Tim has drifted off to a light sleep. Even in his own exhaustion, it was clear to Aramis that the teenager hadn’t been sleeping well.

“Leave him,” Aramis says quietly when Treville goes to move Tim. “He’s fine.”

Treville is glad to see Tim resting. He knew that despite their talk about the emergency, Tim was still dealing with it and only Aramis would be able to resolve it. Each of his kids had a bond with Aramis thanks to the young man’s stay at his house and steady presence in their lives over the last six years. He wasn’t angry about it. He’d seen each of his kids grow thanks to that bond. And it was good for Aramis, too.


	27. A Long Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: surrender) A meeting of two old friends at a much needed point. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not much of a summary I know, but any more would give it all away. This one and the next few aren't terribly happy ones but they do expand more on Aramis' recovery, except for tomorrow's. This one does have some descriptions of the massacre but they're not too graphic, I don't think. Thanks for continuing to read and comment. We're coming to the end of these soon, so if you're tired of them it's almost over.

He is more than cold. The last newspaper he saw said it was November 11th but that was many days ago so it might not be November anymore. He notes the sunrise and sunset but not the passing of days. Time is endless and he spends more and more of it not present.

His domain is a set of pallets that he’s stacked with enough space for him to sit in if his knees are pulled up to his chest. He sleeps this way, when he sleeps. The length of each wall has a nondescript hole he set up to keep an eye on who is coming. Most don’t bother the crazy young man living down the alley by St. Jude Catholic Church, which has been abandoned for years.

That’s not to say that some haven’t tried. Just last week a handful of teenagers ambushed him on his way back from the community soup kitchen. He fended them off but not before they got in some good hits that left him seeing double and made him lose the one meal he’d get for the day.  

He’s been here since it was warm, when the sun blazed overhead and he sat in the alleyway sure he was seconds from death. Now, he thinks he might freeze but not if this cough gets him first.

One day at the soup kitchen a group was handing out winter clothes. He knew not to fight the others for the better stuff and waited until the end. His jacket was donated, already worn with holes that had been repaired with duct tape. The gloves and cap were the same. The scarf was threadbare. But he didn’t complain.

Another day there were boots and socks. The latter of these were new. He managed to keep two pairs of the pack of six and had both on now.

He hasn’t gone to the soup kitchen in days. He hasn’t left his pallet box home in days. That was when the coughing grew worse. His sleep is sporadic. Yesterday he didn’t remember the sun setting and today he can’t remember its rise. But he is sure that he was awake as he feels no more rested than before.

His mind is filled with images of death and blood, the memories of trying to close bullet sized wounds in small bodies. Too many holes. He patches one and finds another. Then another. And then a final, shuddering breath. A prayer and he moves to the next. In the dark, he goes from body to body, ignoring his own painful wounds because in the panic, with the adrenalin coursing through, they don’t matter. And still, could they ever matter more than the bullet-riddled body of a child who’s just lost their first tooth?

He knows that he’s not left the alley, his small bit of home, but his mind tells him otherwise. As time has worn on he knows that he is losing more of reality. It disappears in the blink of an eye and he sees dying children. When he thinks he might have saved one he is back in the cold. That itself is enough to depress him but even more is that he knows he failed that child.

His head aches, pounds behind his eyes. His body is stiff and not just because he hasn’t moved from here in days. It aches, especially his chest with each violent cough. And he is hot. Suddenly, he is very hot and cannot sit here for one more moment. Everyone is dead and gone. He can’t save any more, not even himself. So, he crawls out, hurriedly, his legs knocking into the pallet home. It tilts and shakes, then collapses with a cacophony that shatters the silence and kicks up dust and cold air. He winces at the noise and coughs in the dust and air.

Then, he has to go. Someone might be watching. Someone might still be out there, waiting to pick off the last survivor, to complete the mission.

He walks.

Out of the alley.

Out on the sidewalk.

He walks.

And on his walk he sheds his clothes, the cap is the first to go because it’s hot. He’s in the desert in the part of the day when the sun is at its apex and he is burning up. Feet or yards later, he doesn’t keep count, he just walks, the scarf is lost to the ground.

He walks but he does pause for traffic. He doesn’t for people though. They steer clear of him. He doesn’t notice their stares, their unashamed gawking and he doesn’t feel anything about their apathy at the sight of a homeless man walking, shedding his clothing in twenty-degree weather with a steady breeze that brings it down on average ten degrees.

He walks in the direction that he thinks will take him out of this desert, away from the bodies of dead children and teammates. It’s a tiring walk. When he pauses it’s to cough, loud hacking coughs that rake his throat raw and force him to bend over grasping for a cold brick wall with his now bare hands to steady him.

It doesn’t stop him though. He has to get out. He sheds his jacket and keeps going, braving the heat. Occasionally he trips in the sand. The first several times, he catches himself with his hands, landing on all fours. After a while, the sand becomes slick under his feet and he gets a face full of it that feels so delightful that thinks he might stay. But he forces himself slowly to his feet. And walks.

Then there is a door in front of him, an unfamiliar door. It has a wreath on it, interwoven with multi-colored lights. There are windows on either side that shine a bright, warm light.

He knocks. Without thought, his hand forms a fist and moves to knock, five short raps in a familiar rhythm.

A young boy pokes his head up from one of the windows. When he sees the small face, familiar and not, he scrambles back, tumbling down the porch step and onto his butt, air leaving his lungs.

Then the door opens and a man appears.

He gets to his feet quickly, panic rising. He coughs harshly and doesn’t stop for minutes it seems.

“What do you want,” the man asks. He’s familiar, dressed in jeans and a sweater, his feet put in untied boots to step out on the porch.

The young man licks his dry, cracked lips with his equally thick, dry tongue.

“I…,” he croaks.

“Why did you come here?”

“I…,” he tries again. Around him things are changing. At one glance there is the desert, then winter. Nevertheless, he shivers and it rattles his teeth.

“Who are you?” The man takes a couple steps closer, looking at him with increasing curiosity. The young man takes a step back and when he nearly trips again, the older man reaches out a hand to catch him.

“Aramis,” the man says, confusion clear in his voice.

Aramis looks up in surprise and tries to pull away but the man keeps his grip.

“Aramis, stop. It’s me, it’s Jean Treville, your old ROTC instructor.” Treville grabs at Aramis with both of his hands, wrapping his arms around the young man. Aramis fights him, jabs boney, far too boney, elbows into his stomach to get away but Treville holds tight. He’s been looking for Aramis for months, since the young man’s sister called, crying because he’d disappeared during the night. He’d had his best men looking, researching when they were not busy with cases.

He won’t let go, no matter how much Aramis fights him.

“Aramis, please. Stop,” he pleads again.

Aramis responds in Pashto, a language Treville taught him. So, he switches languages, realizing that the young man is in the middle of a flashback. He repeats his mantra, reassuring Aramis that he is safe, that he can stop fighting, that he is there to take care of him.

As the young man’s energy dwindles, he collapses back into Treville. Treville sinks to the porch, ignoring the ice-cold concrete that instantly seeps through his jeans. He brings Aramis down before the young man’s legs leave him. Aramis is awkwardly heaped on the ground, face pressed against Treville’s chest. It’s cold. But then Aramis is out in this weather without a jacket or even a sweater, wearing too-worn jeans that can’t protect against anything more than a child’s whisper and a long-sleeved t-shirt that has been poorly duct taped to repair the holes. He is wet and cold, though his skin burns. The shivering is interrupted by rough coughs.

There is little left of the young man he once knew.

“Aramis,” he tries again. The young man has stopped fighting him and is simply fighting for each breath. “What happened? How did you get here?”

“D…dead,” Aramis says with a choked sob. “All… dead.”

“What? Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you since you left Maria’s.”

“Can’t go… back. Gone. Dead. Killed them… them all.”

Treville doesn’t know what happened but it’s clear that Aramis is in no condition right now to answer any questions. His best guess, based on the smell, dirtiness, unkempt beard, and long, greasy, knotted hair, is that he’s been living on the streets.

“What’s going on, Jean,” Sarah asks from the doorway.

“It’s Aramis. Do you remember him from my retirement ceremony?”

“How could I not? He was quite the charmer, without meaning to be. He caused such an uproar amongst the ladies and some of the men in his dress uniform,” Sarah says fondly.

“He’s been missing,” Treville says, looking down at Aramis.

“I know. You’ve been rather persistent in looking.”

There’s a pause.

“I can’t let him leave, Sarah.”

“I know,” she says without anger and then is gone.

“I’m going to take care of you, Aramis,” Treville says, holding the man tighter.

“No,” Aramis says, voice weak. “Don’ des…erve.”

“Yes, you do. You don’t see it now. You were always harder on yourself.”

“They’re dead,” Aramis says, voice louder. “They’re all dead,” he almost wails.

“We’ll sort it out later. Right now, let me help you.” Treville can’t take the anguish in Aramis’ voice. Whatever happened is weighing heavily on him.

“No.”

“Please, Aramis,” Treville pleads again, hoping that he can soon get through to the man.

“Here, let’s get this around him for now.” Sarah has a blanket in her hands. Treville reaches a hand out to help her put it around Aramis. “We need to get him inside,” she says quietly. “He can stay in the den.”

Treville nods.

“I’m going back in with Tim and Ben. Let me know when you need help.”

“Thanks,” Treville says, watching as she goes back inside. The door is left open, but she’s taken the kids away.

“Please, sir,… let me go,” Aramis says so quietly Treville nearly misses it.

“No. You’ve been let go enough. You’re stuck here with me and my family until you’re healthy, physically and mentally.”

“Not the… their… fault.” Aramis is coughing more.

“They were your friends, your teammates. They swore to watch your six and they didn’t. I will. I promise you that. I always have and always will.”

Treville thinks Aramis is going to speak again, hears the intake of breath, but then muted sobs. He holds the young man tighter to him, rocking him as he might a child, and telling him that he’ll be there to protect him, to help him, to support him.

How long this goes on, Treville isn’t sure. But when Aramis is finally spent and either asleep or passed out, he calls quietly for Sarah. They work to get the limp man to his feet, Sarah holding him until Treville can stand. He picks up Aramis easily, an arm under his knees and one behind his shoulders; the man has lost too much weight. Sarah locks up the door behind them, then leads the way to the den. She already has the couch set up, with sheets, a pillow, and some thick blankets.

“He can’t stay in those clothes,” she says.

Treville is hesitant to undress the man with him so unaware and clearly in a bad mental state but Sarah is right. In the process of getting him into dry clothes, clean clothes, he sees the bruises and bones showing. He sees the scars that weren’t there before. It can all be dealt with later, he decides. Right now, they must address the immediate concern.

“I’m going to sit with him tonight,” Treville says when they have Aramis settled on the couch, buried under blankets. There is no way the young man isn’t warm now. Sarah puts a thermometer in the young man’s mouth.

“He needs a doctor,” Sarah says.

“I know but not tonight. He’s dealt with enough.

“He has a fever.” She waits to check the thermometer. “102.6. It was probably worse before all of that time spent outside. And I’m sure he’s wheezing when he breathes.”

“Sarah, I know he needs a doctor, but I can’t inflict that on him now. If he gets bad during the night, I’ll take him to the ER.”

“No.” She walks around to face him. “You’ll wake me and then you’ll take him. This isn’t going to be easy. It’s not like when one of the kids when they get sick.”

“I know, Sarah,” Treville says, working to keep his voice calm.

“I just want you to be aware of what you’re getting into. I don’t know what’s happened to him but it’s clear that it was pretty bad.”

“What do you want me to do? Take him to a shelter?”

“No, of course not.” She sits on the coffee table next to where Treville sits. “He wouldn’t last there and we both know that. I just want you to know that he’s not going to be the same young man you knew and this is going to take time. It won’t be easy on you or him or us, for that matter.”

Treville nods. If either of them were going to be familiar with what Aramis is going through it would be Sarah. She studied psychology in college. Once the kids are older, she has plans to continue her studies.

“I can’t leave him though.” He looks at her, meeting her gaze.

“I know and I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“Thank you,” Treville says. They sit for a while longer, watching Aramis, who, though still unconscious, coughs occasionally.

“Remember, wake me if he gets worse and you have to take him to the ER,” Sarah says from the doorway.

“I will.” Treville nods. He then sits back to watch the young man lay there. He is sure is night will be eventful as will the coming days but he is determined not to let Aramis leave, not to let him down, not to let him give up.


	28. The Cry for Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: cathartic bath/shower) Athos is woken in the early morning by a call from a desperate-sounding Aramis. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some mention of suicide in this one.

Athos is woken by his phone ringing. When he is just alert enough to think to answer it, it goes silent. Then three seconds later it blares again. He grabs it and pushes the answer button without glancing at the phone.

“You have five seconds to explain why you’re calling this early on a weekend,” he grumbles into the phone.

There are no words on the other end, just sniffles and quickened breathing.

“Who is this?” There’s less grumbling and more curiosity this time.

“’thos?” Athos knows that voice, can hear the tears in his voice.

“Aramis?” Athos sits up in bed.

“Help,” Aramis says.

“Where are you?” Athos is already out the door and running downstairs.

“By… the lake.”

“Can you be a little more specific, ‘Mis.” Lake Bluff doesn’t have a lot of lakefront property, but it is enough that without more details finding Aramis will take time. He has his shoes on and his jacket. Before he grabs his keys and wallet, he picks up a blanket for Aramis. It’s March, but it’s still chilly out, especially down by the lake.

“The light… house,” Aramis says with a hiccup.

“The one we like to stargaze from,” Athos asks.

“Yeah,” Aramis says weakly. “Please, Athos.”

Athos’ heart jolts at the pain in Aramis’ voice. The last he knew Aramis was at Anne’s apartment in the city. He wasn’t supposed to be back until later in the day.

“I’m coming, Aramis. Just hang on until I get there.” Athos gets in his car and opens the garage door. It’s raining, pouring and it must be on Aramis, too. He sets the phone up so he can talk hands-free and takes off.

“What happened, Aramis,” he asks, hoping to keep the man talking.

There’s more sniffles, a few hiccups, and quickened breathing. Aramis is crying again. Athos holds back a sigh. Frustration will get him nowhere with Aramis right now.

“Alright, tell me what’s going on there. I bet no one’s out in this rain.”

“N.. no. There’s no… one h… here. It’s raining.”

“I bet. It’s pouring here. I can barely see in front of me.”

“Oh… I didn’t r…realize. Don’t come. Not safe.”

“You know this rain is nothing for us, not with that extra training Porthos gave us a couple years ago,” Athos says reassuringly.

He tries to keep up the conversation as he drives. It lags at times as he has to concentrate on the road but eventually, an eternity later it seems, he gets to the lake, parks, and runs down the long-winding ramp to see Aramis standing at the lighthouse, shrouded by the waves that are pounding on the concrete, flying feet above his head. His jacket is gone, leaving him to deal with the elements in just a dress shirt and slacks.

“Aramis,” Athos calls out, running sloppily in the soggy sand. He is soaked but he doesn’t care. Reaching Aramis is his only goal. He nearly falls over when he gets to the concrete of the lighthouse. Aramis still hasn’t seen him. He stands with his back turned, looking out at the choppy lake. Athos is careful in his approach, not knowing what mindset Aramis is in.

“Aramis,” he calls out loudly, standing to the side of the younger man. Aramis turns his face, tear-streaked and red, to look at Athos. He can see that Aramis is barely holding it together.

“Let’s go home.” Athos puts a comforting arm on Aramis’ shoulder, hoping to coax the man into some movement.

“No.” Aramis shakes him off.

“You can’t stay out here. It’s cold and raining. You’ll catch a cold. You probably already have.” They are both fighting to be heard amongst the wind and the crashing waves.

“Fine then,” Aramis says with a trace of a pout.

“Aramis,” Athos says sternly.

Then Aramis’s face scrunches up a bit and he sinks down the waist-high wall to sit on the wet ground, legs bent at the knees. There’s a ragged breath and then Athos knows that Aramis is crying, again, and that they won’t be going anywhere until this can be sorted. He sits down, ignoring the coldness and wetness that seep through his sweats, making sure that he is touching Aramis. He puts an arm around Aramis’ shoulders, pulling him closer. He waits for the younger man to work through his tears.

“You ready to talk, ‘Mis,” Athos says gently when Aramis seems calmer.

Aramis hesitates, then gives a slight nod. Drops of water from another wave fall down on them, mixing with the steadily falling rain.

“Tell me what happened. Did she say no?”

Aramis and Anne have been together for nearly a year. They’d all been hesitant at first, Aramis most of all as his last serious relationship with a woman had ended in disaster though he never has told them what happened. But then as the months passed and their love only grew stronger, he’d grown more confident. They’d all seen it and been happy for their friend. Last night he’d taken his grandmother’s wedding ring. They’d coaxed him through nerves and second-thoughts all week and when Aramis didn’t come home last night, Athos assumed it went fine.

Aramis shakes his head, tears still coming down, mixing with the rain that streamed down his face.

“What is this about then? Aren’t you happy she said yes?”

“I… never asked,” Aramis says.

“What? Why?” Athos pushes back wet hair from his face. He’s soaked down to his skin and would love a hot shower but Aramis needs him here.

“H…her h… h… husband came home,” Aramis says, losing control again. Puzzled, Athos guides the man’s head to his shoulder, trying to comfort him. He waits again.

“Her husband,” Athos asks once Aramis is ready again.

The young man nods.

“She’s married?”

Another nod.

“And she never said anything?”

Aramis shakes his head.

Athos can think of nothing to say. He knows how much Aramis loves Anne. He’d seen it from the day he met her at their favorite coffee shop. He didn’t use his charisma to attract her. There wasn’t the usual playful charm that he used with the ladies. He wooed her, in an old-fashioned but respectful way that delighted Anne. They were happy together. Their arguments were few and resolved quickly. It was perfect. In hindsight, too perfect. And now she left Aramis a wreck. A year of romance tainted by a single night, a single secret.

Sorry just wouldn’t cut it.

“I don’t know what to say, ‘Mis,” Athos says helplessly.

“I… I don’t know what to do.” Aramis matches the helpless tone.

“What do you want to do,” Athos tests, wondering what response he’ll get. Aramis’ reaction to things like this can vary. When his father died, he didn’t speak for days. On the five-year anniversary of the massacre, he got blinding drunk and they nearly had to take him to the ER. Whether this was normal or thanks to the PTSD, they didn’t know. They were just prepared for anything.

Aramis doesn’t respond, but stands, and turns to look out at the lake. Athos joins him, seeing the familiar lost look in the man’s eyes. That is a dangerous look for the man. Without thought, Athos puts a firm hand around the man’s smaller wrist hoping that despite the rain his grip would hold.

Aramis looks at his hand and then at Athos.

“Why did you come here, Aramis,” Athos asks calmly.

“I…I…” Aramis hesitates.

“Remember your promise to us,” Athos says, fighting the wind.

Aramis nods, licking his lips.

“I didn’t know what else to do, Athos. I love her.” Aramis pauses, swallows heavily. “I loved her but it was nothing but a game for her. First Isabel then Anne. It seems I am doomed to be alone,” Aramis says, looking out at the lake. Athos knows that this is more than just romance even if Aramis won’t admit it now. The desertion of his friends after the massacre set in a deep fear of being abandoned in Aramis.

“You’re not alone, Aramis. You have us,” Athos says.

“I mean romance, Athos.” Aramis looks at him.

“I know. I won’t say that there’s someone out there for you because I don’t know that there is,” Athos says. “But I can tell you that you won’t be alone. You have me, Porthos, d’Artagnan, Constance, and Treville. And of course there’s Sarah and the kids. Your sisters and their children. If we die before you, there’ll be the children and you know they adore you.”

Aramis nods but the lost look is still there.

“But I want a partner. I want a relationship. I want Anne.”

“I know, but she’s not the one for you.”

There’s a long pause. Aramis doesn’t move and Athos doesn’t let his grip go. The rain has settled to a steady drizzle.

“Why,” Aramis says at last. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Athos shrugs his shoulders.

Aramis sighs and drops his shoulders.

“You can let go, Athos.” Athos raises an eyebrow at him. Aramis adds, “I want to but I won’t.”

“Then let’s go back to the car,” Athos says calmly, not letting go. He doesn’t believe that Aramis would lie but he wants the younger man to feel a connection with another human, with a friend to know that he’s not alone.

Aramis nods and turns. They begin their slow walk back up. It’s a longer walk than normal and it’s not just because of their speed. There’s some sort of finality in going home that Aramis isn’t ready for. They are both wet and shivering though and home is where they need to be, where there is a hot shower, dry clothes, and drinks to warm them.

“I’m sorry I called you out here, Athos,” Aramis says as they approach the car.

“I’m glad that you did,” Athos says without hesitation.

Aramis nods.

“Athos.” Aramis looks at Athos over the roof of the car. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Aramis. And ‘Mis,” Athos says, before the younger man gets in, “thank you.”

Aramis nods. Then they both get in. Athos hands Aramis the blanket and turns on the car, putting the heat up as high as it goes before taking off.

This was the pact they made with Aramis. All he has to do is call, anytime, anywhere and they would come. They would be there to assure him of his worth, of their friendship, and that he would never be alone again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Annamis doesn’t exist in this universe. I’m not an Annamis fan, but then I’m not a romance fan. I don’t have anything against Anne, I just wasn’t interested in a romantic pairing and I needed Aramis to be distraught for another story I’m working on that comes a few months after this one.


	29. Coming to Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: bandaging wounds) Treville gets a startling call from his wife that Aramis is in the ER. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what was going on in these last few stories. This one again deals with suicide, but more directly this time. Please read with caution as this does deal with a suicide attempt.

A week ago, Treville got the call but he didn’t believe it until now, refused to until he had written proof to show Aramis and anyone else who might doubt his word. He has his phone in hand to call Sarah when she calls him.

“Jean, you need to come home, right away,” Sarah says. Treville can hear how she’s forcing herself to be calm.

“What happened?” He’s already getting things together, calculating if he’s going to be able to catch the next train home. Sarah wouldn’t make a call like this without reason.

“It’s Aramis. We’re at the ER. H… he’s not responding, Jean.” She nearly cries then.

“What happened?” He signals to Athos that he’s going out as he runs outside and doesn’t stop until he gets to the station.

“I don’t know. He was on the phone and then an hour later I found him in the bathroom, unconscious. He’d taken whatever was left from one of your old pain prescriptions. I didn’t know, Jean. I didn’t know.” She is barely keeping herself together now, the guilt and trauma of Aramis’ suicide attempt weighing on her.

“I know, Sarah. I’m going to have to go. I’m almost to the station but I’ll call once the train gets going. I’ll be there as soon as I can. He’s a fighter, Sarah. Aramis is a fighter,” Treville says and hopes that he’s not lying.

His mind wanders as he waits to board the train and then until he can call her back. He can’t think of what would have sent Aramis to this. There had been times in the weeks since Aramis came that they watched him closely, days where he thought so little of his own worth that they stayed with him around the clock, days where they hid anything dangerous and gave him meals that could be eaten only with a spoon.

Sarah has nothing new on Aramis when he calls her back. They talk to comfort each other and it doesn’t work for either. Aramis has so quickly become a part of their family, losing him would be devastating.

When his stop comes, he gets off without hanging up, hoping that if he waits just a second longer good news will come. It doesn’t and he has to hang up to drive. Traffic is heavy but he is also frustrated and panicked. He can think only of Aramis and Sarah and getting to the hospital as soon as possible and the cars traveling at the speed limit are going far too slow for him.

He runs into the ER, nearly passing the nurses’ station when he sees stern eyes and double doors that are closed to him.

“My friend was brought in here. My wife is with him. I need to go see them,” he says in a rush.

“Okay, sir. Who is your friend,” the nurse behind the desk asks.

“Aramis, René d’Herblay,” Treville corrects himself as he remembers Aramis’ given name. “I’m Jean Treville. I’m listed as one of his contacts. He’s not close with his family.” Treville feels like he’s rambling but he needs to get back there. The nurse looks through her records.

“Alright, I’ll take you back. They’re in one of the private exam rooms.”

“How’s he doing? Has there been any news?” He follows her as she walks him through the confusing corridors.

“Based on his chart, the Narcan worked but he’s still unresponsive. The doctor should be around shortly to tell you more.” She opens the door and gestures for him to enter. He walks in the brightly lit room and she closes the door behind him.

Sarah comes to him right away, leaving Aramis’ side to hug him, to gain strength from him. She’s read about suicide but never thought she’d be witness to it. Scrapes and bruises, that’s her every day, not this.

“How’re you doing,” Treville asks, holding Sarah tight.

“I’m fine,” she says, holding back tears.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow that would have made Athos proud.

“As I can be. He’s the bigger concern now.” She nods her head in the direction of the unconscious man. Treville looks over her shoulder, seeing the young man for the first time. He’s pale and far too still. There’s an oxygen mask over his mouth and an IV in his arm. Wires sneak out of his hospital gown indicating a heart monitor and a pulse ox monitor is clipped to a finger. After all of the progress they’d made in the last three months, seeing him like this was more than disheartening.

“You said he got a phone call?” He turns back to her.

“Yeah. He got to it before I could and answered. Then he said it was an old Navy buddy and went into the den.” She shrugs her shoulders. Treville’s efforts to appeal his OTH discharge have been kicking up a lot of dust. People were calling Aramis to try to intimidate him into stopping. They intercepted the calls to save Aramis the stress of dealing with their vitriol and mind-games. He didn’t need to hear it while he was recovering. The calls had stopped in the last week and they thought they were safe. Apparently not.

“Did you hear anything?” They don’t eavesdrop on Aramis but he hoped that she might have heard something.

“When he said, old Navy buddy, I knew something wasn’t right. You’ve said he doesn’t have any, so I stood outside the door.” She doesn’t look remorseful. “He said Marsac a few times. I think that was who he was talking to.”

Treville curses harshly.

“Who’s Marsac,” Sarah asks.

“The guy who was supposed to lead that mission that Aramis did. Marsac was his commander. Damn. I thought he was done making trouble.”

“What’s he done?”

“Other than being instrumental in railroading Aramis into the OTH discharge and shooing away all of his friends?” Treville sighs. “He’s called a number of times, sent threatening letters, and threw what weight he has around to try to stop this appeal from happening.”

“I didn’t know.”

“He’s been a pain in the ass and I thought with the appeal approved, he’d let things go.”

“It went through?” There’s a smile on Sarah’s face for the first time since he got there.

“I just got official confirmation today. I was going to call you to tell Aramis.” He pulls the letter out of his jacket pocket. “I knew last week, but I was waiting for this. I knew Aramis wouldn’t believe a phone call. And now this.” Treville runs a hand through his graying hair. He’s sure there’s more there now than three months ago but he doesn’t regret it. He’d go bald if that meant Aramis would be fine.

Then the doctor comes in.

“Mrs. Treville,” he says, then looks to Treville.

“Oh, this is my husband, Jean. And please call me Sarah,” she says.

“Dr. Smith.” The doctor extends his hand to shake Treville’s. “I came to examine Mr. d’Herblay.”

“He prefers Aramis,” Treville says.

“Aramis, then. The nurse says that he’s still not coming ‘round.”

“She said unresponsive. That’s bad isn’t it,” Treville says as Smith begins his examination.

“He’s not quite unresponsive. There was a short time he truly was but he’s started responding to pain according to the last report. That’s a good sign.”

“Did the overdose do any damage?”

“That’s hard to know. We don’t know how much he took. Some of the pills were still intact, so that’s good. And the Narcan worked. It took a few doses, but it did counteract the morphine. While his breathing was severely depressed, he didn’t stop breathing. So, the chances of brain damage from lack of oxygen are low. You got to him in time, Sarah, and did the right thing in calling 911 immediately.”

Sarah nods, holding back tears as she remembers walking in on Aramis, unconscious with the empty bottle next to him, clear evidence of what had happened. She’d called without thinking. Treville puts a comforting arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

“Now, when he wakes him will be up to him. The sooner the better, of course.”

“Of course,” Treville echoes lightly. Smith continues his exam, then, when finished, looks up at the two of them from behind Aramis.

“Has he been depressed recently?”

“He has PTSD. We’ve made a lot of progress but he got a phone call that disrupted it all,” Treville explains.

“Is he seeing a psychiatrist?”

“No. He’s a veteran who doesn’t qualify for benefits. Or didn’t. He does now.”

“I see,” Smith says, ignoring Treville’s rambling comments. “When he regains consciousness, one of our psychiatrists will be in to evaluate him.”

“What does that mean?” Treville stiffens unconsciously at the doctor’s comment, waiting for further explanation before defending the unconscious man.

“He’s made one suicide attempt. There’s a chance he’ll make another. He has PTSD that he’s had no treatment for. He has to be evaluated.”

“Look,” Treville begins, feeling his hackles raise in defense of Aramis, at the doctor’s matter-of-fact tone, “this young man has been through hell and he’s had nearly every sliver of dignity and respect taken away. These past three months he’s made progress because he’s been around people who care for him, who love him, and ask him what he wants instead of forcing him to do things.”

“He is a risk to himself and has to be evaluated,” Smith counters.

“And where is his say in this,” Sarah asks.

“If he’s a danger to himself, he has to be looked after. That’s the law. If the psychiatrist determines that he’s no danger to himself, then he’ll be let go. It’s not up to me or him. It’s the law.”

“I understand but…” Treville is cut off by a low moan from Aramis. The young man is finally waking it seems. Treville and Sarah move quickly to his side.

“’Mis,” Treville says gently, using the man’s nickname. It is rare for him to do so but he wants the man to be comforted as he rises through the dredges of unconsciousness. He slips his hand in Aramis’ and sees Sarah put hers on top of the younger man’s. They wait several minutes as Aramis seems to come back and then fades before his eyes open or recognition reaches his irises.

Then he comes back suddenly, panicking and trying to push the mask off his face. Treville ignores the doctor’s squawks of irritation as he pulls the mask off and works to calm Aramis.

“You’re safe,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re at the ER. Sarah’s here. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re not alone. We’re looking after you, keeping watch.” He keeps up the mantra until Aramis begins to calm. He stops fighting and follows Treville’s lead in taking deep breaths. By then a nurse has come in, waving a syringe full of a sedative.

“Don’t let her give that to him,” Sarah says. “Jean has him calming down. He didn’t know where he was and the mask scared him.”

The nurse looks to Smith, who’s watching the scene in front of him, hesitant.

“He doesn’t need it. You’re only going to make him trust you less if you give him that,” Sarah says sterner this time, looking directly at Smith. She’s used to fighting for her kids, she thinks and Aramis is no different. They’ll sedate him over her dead body.

“We’re good,” Smith finally says. Aramis is much calmer than he was minutes ago. He still has a hand on Treville’s chest, which was put there and is being held by Treville himself. His breathing is not back to normal but it’s better and his heart rate is coming down.

“How’re you feeling, Aramis,” Smith asks. The younger man shifts his head lazily to look at him but doesn’t answer.

“He, um,” Sarah hesitates. “He’s not comfortable with strangers. He’ll talk, but it takes time.” She’s not apologetic in her tone but it does feel strange to talk about Aramis as though he couldn’t speak for himself. She knows he’s rather chatty. He keeps her company in the kitchen, sometimes doing some baking of his own when he feels up to it.

“’Mis,” Treville tries.

“Trev…ille,” Aramis says, voice scratchy, rolling his head back to look at Treville. There’s an emptiness in those eyes that sinks Treville’s stomach. It’s going to take time to pull Aramis out of this.

“Yeah.” Treville nods. “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired. Heavy. Hurts.”

“I bet. I think the doctor here wants to examine you now that you’re awake. You okay with that? We’ll be here the whole time,” Treville adds when he sees the panic rising. “If you’re uncomfortable, just squeeze my hand, okay?”

Aramis nods.

“Tell him what you’re going to do, before you do it, doctor,” Treville says. “He’s less prone to panic if he knows what’s coming.”

“Sure.” Smith nods and begins his exam. He is sure to be clear in his explanation of what he’s going to do and waits until he sees Aramis understand. The exam takes longer than normal but they get through it without more panic and the nurse has some ice chips for Aramis when they’re done.

“Considering what’s happened you’re doing good. There’s still some improvement needed but everything looks good for now. I have to go see some other patients,” Smith says, walking to the door. “I’ll come back in an hour to see how you’re doing.”

Once he and the nurse are gone, Treville turns his full attention back to Aramis. Sarah takes a seat on the other side of the bed, holding Aramis’ hand.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing from Aramis as he breaks down into tears. “I s… said I w…wouldn’t, but I… I couldn’t… hel…p it.”

Treville pulls Aramis up towards him and hugs the young man as he cries, muttering the same sentence again and again.

“I’m not going to say it’s okay,” Treville says calmly. Aramis has settled some, the explosion of emotion fading to silent tears. “You know I’ll never lie to you and this isn’t okay, but we’ll help you to get you through it.”

“They’re going to… keep me aren’t they,” Aramis asks. Treville sets him back against the raised bed.

“It depends on if you’re going to do this again.” Treville meets Aramis’ gaze with his own.

Aramis nods.

“Are you?”

“I… I don’t know,” Aramis says quietly.

Treville sighs. Days, weeks from now Aramis will likely feel different. But right now, so close to the crisis moment that they might as well still be in it, he’s not surprised by the reaction.

“I know Marsac called you and I’m sure he threatened you and made you think the massacre was your fault. But he’s only doing that because he knows the truth and that he’s in the wrong. You can’t listen to him.”

“But he’s right. I missed that intel. I got them killed.”

“You couldn’t get the intel because it was above your security clearance and he was the one who was supposed to plan and lead the mission. Not a newly minted SEAL who’d only been serving for five months.”

Aramis has nothing to say to that. He knows it’s the truth but accepting it against everything that he’s been forced to accept, the narrative that was given to that night, is hard.

“What if Jean told you the Navy agreed with him, that Marsac was in the wrong, not you,” Sarah asks. Aramis gives her a puzzled look. He knows that Treville has been working on the appeal, but he never believed it would happen.

“I got the official letter today giving you an honorable discharge,” Treville says, handing the letter to Aramis so he could see.

Aramis reads it twice and then twice more because he can’t believe what he is reading.

“This is real,” he asks.

“Yes. I waited for official notice to be sure,” Treville says. He hopes that this might be enough to lift the man’s spirits.

“Then Marsac called because…”

“Because I’m guessing by now he’s facing a court martial for his actions,” Treville finishes for him.

“He threatened my family. He threatened your family. He said we’d never be safe, that he’d take out everyone I ever loved or cared about.” Aramis is getting himself more worked up as he goes on. “He said unless I killed myself, he’d kill everyone.”

“He won’t be able to get to anyone from behind bars, ‘Mis.” Treville sits on the edge of the bed, a comforting hand on Aramis’ leg.

“He said he had connections. He always was able to get things done that no one else could. I have to leave to protect you all. I have to go.” Aramis starts to rise from the bed but Treville and Sarah push him back gently.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sarah says.

“But your kids.”

“Are safe with Athos and Porthos right now. They have the finest protection Chicago can offer.”

“And we’ll protect your family as well,” Treville adds. “He’s a bully, Aramis. A nasty one and if you leave, he gets his way.”

“But…”

“More than that,” Sarah says, sitting on the other side of the bed. “We don’t want you to leave. You deserve to have a family and friends. To be with people who love you. To make your own choices.”

“And if I decide to leave,” Aramis questions, quietly.

“I’ll fight you every step of the way because it’s not your choice,” Treville says. “You think it is, but I know that you don’t want to be alone. If you did, you would’ve never shown up on my doorstep and if you really wanted to die, you’d’ve done it. You’re depressed and lost. You don’t want to die and in time, you’ll see that. It’s just Marsac and the depression getting to you. With this appeal, you have your life back. You can live to honor those kids, your teammates. Do you think any of them would’ve wanted this for you?”

Aramis shakes his head. He’d been on good terms with all of his teammates, friends, too. And the children, as happened with most children he encountered, immediately fell in love with him, following his lead even into their deaths.

Aramis can’t hold back the tears at that thought.

Treville watches Aramis think. During the entire appeal process, Treville fought harder than he’d ever fought for something. He used every favor and bit of clout he had. He even threatened to go to the press despite the gag order when they were wavering despite overwhelming evidence. He hadn’t been under the impression that winning the appeal would be a simple fix for Aramis, but he had hoped it would be a big step in the right direction.

But watching Aramis now, talking with him now, he saw that it is more like putting a band-aid on a gaping wound. These wounds are permanent and right now are gushing. Aramis needs psychiatric help, he needs his family and friends. The appeal will help but more than that, he needs support and understanding because no bandage is big enough for these wounds. They will stick with him for life and, if Treville has any say in it, it will be a long, happy life with friends and family who won’t leave no matter the struggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had no plans to bring Marsac in but I needed someone to be the commander and he seemed perfect. It seems, though, that I’ve made him worse than in the canon.


	30. Learning to Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: shoulder to cry on): Aramis reveals a low point in his past to help d'Artagnan understand it's okay to show weakness. (modernAU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why these turned so dark towards the end of the month. It has a happy ending-ish, though. 
> 
> This one deals with suicide and self-harm, so please read with caution.

Aramis observes d’Artagnan throughout the day. The young man is quiet, reserved, and listless. He knows that Athos and Porthos have seen it too but here, at the station, is not the place to address this. d’Artagnan’s silence makes them all quiet during the work day, on the train, and in the kitchen. Dinner too is a somber affair.

When the young man leaves his plate half eaten without offering to clean up, Aramis knows that it’s time.

“I’ll talk with him. You two clean up,” he says and follows d’Artagnan up to the man’s room. Though the door is half open, Aramis waits beyond the threshold. There are clear boundaries and rules in this house and not just because of Aramis. They all have their demons.

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis says quietly, knocking a knuckle on the door a couple times to further catch the man’s attention.

d’Artagnan looks up, face drawn. He is sitting on the edge of his bed, playing idly with the case of his phone.

“Mind if I come in?”

“You can come in,” d’Artagnan answers quietly. He knows Aramis won’t enter unless there’s clear consent unless danger is evident.

Aramis takes a step in and leans against the doorframe. The younger man’s room is far messier than his own. They don’t say anything about it. The only requirement is that he keep it clean, a task that they all do for themselves with their bedrooms, their private sanctuaries. Athos had asked too that he properly hang up his posters rather than tape them to the wall. d’Artagnan griped about ruining the vibe, but he did as Athos asked. The young man is just twenty-two though he looks more like sixteen with the lack of facial hair that had come to be stereotypical of the Musketeers.

The two stand and sit in silence.

“Is this some kind of intervention,” d’Artagnan asks, mild irritation in his voice.

Aramis chuckles lightly.

“No. That’s more of a Porthos and Athos thing. They’re scary when they do a double-team intervention.” Aramis pauses. “It’s more of making sure you know that you can come to us. We’ve all been in your position. The first kill is the hardest.”

d’Artagnan huffs.

“I doubt any of you’ve been in my position, especially you, Aramis. I’m a farm boy. We had animals on the farm but never for eating. The most I’ve ever killed is some corn and it doesn’t have a face.”

Aramis waits, considers his words.

“d’Artagnan, do you think me being a sniper makes killing any easier,” Aramis asks, voice quiet. “The people I’ve killed had no idea a bullet was coming at them. They were enjoying their day, spending time with their families, watching a parade. Taking a life isn’t easy, whether you’re several hundred feet away or inches. It’s a person, just like you and me who, had a life, family who will miss them, friends. They had goals and dreams and ambitions. And then, in an instant, it’s over, with a single pull of the trigger and you don’t even break a sweat, burn barely a calorie in the killing of a fellow human.”

“But he was a criminal,” d’Artagnan says. “He sold drugs to kids, got them hooked. How many did he kill with those synthetic drugs?”

“It doesn’t mean it’s any easier, d’Artagnan. A life is a life. It doesn’t matter if they’re good or bad, death is not the solution. Justice is and that doesn’t come at the end of a gun, no matter who you are.”

d’Artagnan looks at him and nods.

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” Aramis cuts him off gently. “You’re confused right now, not sure what you should feel.” Aramis walks slowly over the bed, sitting next to the young man.

d’Artagnan nods again.

“Part of me is glad that he’s off the streets and the other never wants to pick up a gun again.”

“That’s expected, normal. You should’ve come to us about it,” Aramis says. There’s no chiding in his voice.

“How could I? This is nothing in comparison to what you guys deal with, especially you.”

“d’Artagnan, we all need a shoulder to cry on once in a while. We’re brothers here, that’s what we’re here for. You can cry on any of our shoulders without guilt or embarrassment. Goodness knows, I’ve done my share,” Aramis says with a slight huff.

“You?” d’Artagnan gives him a doubtful look. “You’re the strongest person I know. What with everything you’ve dealt with and you’re successful. You’re working at one of the most elite police forces in the nation.” d’Artagnan has been with them for a little more than four months now. He knows snippets of Aramis’ past and what he deals with now.

“You do remember how we met,” Aramis asks, turning the doubting eye back on the younger man.

“And that’s why you’re strong. You pulled yourself out of homelessness to get to where you are now.”

Aramis chuckles wryly and looks down.

“That’s a nice story but it’s not true,” he says.

“Who says it’s not,” Porthos says, just outside the door. d’Artagnan signals for him and Athos to come in. They both take positions near the door, leaning against the wall and doorframe.

“I know it’s not,” Aramis says. Then he sighs. “If it had been up to me, I’d’ve probably been long dead.”

“But…” d’Artagnan begins.

“When you’re in over your head in misery and depression, it’s very hard to pull yourself out of it. You need help. You have to want it, but you need help,” Aramis explains. “And the sooner you can accept that, the easier things will be.”

“Listen to ‘Mis on this one,” Porthos says. “You can always come to us, no matter what.”

“We’re family now, d’Artagnan,” Athos says. “And a family depends on each other to keep going.”

d’Artagnan gives them each a skeptical look.

“We’re not saying it’s easy,” Porthos says.

“No, it’s not,” Aramis says quietly enough he thinks no one hears.

“What happened, ‘Mis,” d’Artagnan asks. He doesn’t use Aramis’ nickname often. It feels awkward in his mouth but not this time. Aramis looks at him, a touch of sadness clear in his face.

“You don’t have to…”

“It’s fine,” Aramis says quickly, cutting him off. Perhaps it will help the young man to see that everyone needs help, even him who d’Atragnan sees as a pillar of strength, unflappable. He takes a breath and when d’Artagnan thinks he’s going to speak, Aramis stays silent, shoulders sinking. d’Artagnan looks to Athos and Porthos, thinking they might jump in but they are standing there, patiently.

“Sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago,” Aramis says finally. His voice has a distant tone. “And other times, like it was yesterday. My first year on the task force, as a Musketeer, I worked two whole months before it all came down before me. I went from staying with Treville and his family, to a spare bed crammed in Porthos’ bedroom, to here, Athos’ house and none of it was by choice. Four months on administrative leave did nothing. I just kept getting worse.”

“What happened,” d’Artagnan asks again.

“I gave up,” Aramis says simply.

“You?” d’Artagnan looks to Athos and Porthos.

“I still don’t remember a lot of it. It’s more of a giant black spot.”

“We remember it perfectly,” Athos says, a haunted look in his eyes.

“Do you mind,” Porthos asks, meeting Aramis’ gaze.

“You’ll have to because I only remember waking up days later,” Aramis says.

Porthos pauses before speaking.

“He’d been refusing to do much of anything for a while,” he says. “It’d happened before so we didn’t think much of it. He’d lay there listless but eventually come out of it. We talked to him and he’d tell us what was going on but it wasn’t everything.”

“I woke up one night suddenly,” Athos says. “It was strange because I’d taken melatonin, which usually kept me out until morning.

Athos remembers the strange feeling he had, it pulled him from his bed and he followed it out into the hallway where Aramis’ door was shut. It never was shut. The man didn’t like to be closed off from noise, from the world.

“Aramis,” he calls loudly, but calmly. He gives a few short knocks on the door. When there’s no answer, he hesitates for a moment and then cracks the door open. The nightstand light is on but Aramis isn’t in the bed. He isn’t in sight.

“Aramis,” Athos calls out again, more frantically this time, walking swiftly around the bed to see if the man is perhaps on the other side of the bed. And there he finds Aramis, unconscious and bloody.

“Porthos,” he yells out. He grabs some spare shirts that Aramis has lying on the floor and holds them against the wounds on his wrists. They’re not deadly wounds, but they are bleeding heavily. “Porthos,” he calls louder. “I need your help.”

Seconds later, he hears Porthos stumble and run out of his room right into Aramis’. He’s right across from the young man.

“Athos, what’s going on,” he asks, adrenalin chasing away the last vestiges of sleep.

“He’s cut himself,” Athos says. “Call 911.”

“You don’t want us to take him in ourselves?”

“No. Call, please,” Athos says urgently. “He’s been bleeding for a bit, I think, and isn’t waking up.”

Porthos doesn’t argue, running back to grab his phone. He’s already talking with the emergency operator when he walks back in.

“I don’t know. My friend found him maybe five minutes ago. He said he’s been unconscious the whole time.”

Athos tunes out the conversation as he changes out the half-sodden shirts with dry ones. The bleeding isn’t stopping and that worries him. They know that Aramis has been suicidal in the last year and made one attempt but he thought Treville got through to him.

When the paramedics arrive, Athos is shooed away briskly and watches with a vacant gaze as the paramedics work to stem the bleeding as best as they can and then whisk Aramis away. They don’t offer a ride to one of them and it’s only when Porthos asks where they’re taking him that Athos starts to process again.

“Come on, Athos, we have to get going,” Porthos says. His voice still sounds distant. “Athos, you okay?” Porthos stands in front of him, looking at him with concerned eyes. Athos looks back down at his hands, his bloody hands. Then he sees the stretch of carpet, the circles of blood stained carpet, the t-shirts half-soaked with Aramis’ blood. And he vomits. Right there. Porthos moves quick enough to avoid the main bout but is hit with splatters. He holds his friend as he’s bent at the waist, violently throwing up. He winces at the harshness of each heave.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it’s over. Athos is left panting for breath and Porthos holds on still. He will feel this too eventually, but for now his friends need him to function.

“Let’s get your hands washed, Athos,” he says quietly, directing Athos to the hallway bathroom.

“But Aramis,” Athos counters quietly.

“Will be there when we get there. We need to take care of you first. You can’t go walking around with blood all over your hands, now can you?”

Athos shakes his head and lets Porthos wash his hands. He’s too unsteady himself to take care of it. The warm water feels nice on his cold hands. When he’s done, Porthos grabs a hand towel and dries most of the water from his hands before leaving Athos to take care of the rest.

“Let’s get changed and then I’ll drive us over,” Porthos says.

“We should let Treville know,” Athos says.

“You can call him on our way over.”

They change out of their dirty nightclothes and make the drive to the ER. Athos calls Treville on the drive. Their Captain arrives minutes after them.

“Family for d’Herblay,” a nurse asks them as they walk to the desk.

“Yes,” Porthos says. “How is he?”

“The doctor is currently seeing him,” she says plainly, ignoring Porthos’ question. “You’ll have to wait out here.”

“Why? We’re his friends. His emergency contacts.”

“The doctor is busy working on your friend. When he’s done, you can go back.”

“Can you at least tell us if he’s okay?”

She looks at some papers. “He’s stable but in serious condition. The doctor is working on closing the wounds without much more blood loss.”

Aramis, when they get back to the exam room, a private one, is in a hospital gown. He’s been cleaned up and his wrists tightly bandaged. There’s the familiar array of machinery: wires for the heart monitor, a pulse ox monitor, IV, and nasal cannula. Beneath it all he’s pale and that, for some reason, shocks Porthos the most.

“How is he,” Porthos asks.

“A very lucky man,” the doctor says, finishing up his exam.

“Lucky?”

“If you hadn’t woken during the night, he’d’ve been dead.”

“He’ll make it then?”

“He should. We’re going to hold off on a transfusion. While he’s lost a good deal of blood, it’s not a critical amount and given time, he should be able to make it up on his own,” the doctor explains. “He’s been depressed, I gather.”

“Yeah,” Porthos nods, looking slightly puzzled at the doctor.

“And this isn’t the first time he’s cut himself?”

“What,” Treville says, turning to the others.

“We had no idea,” Porthos says, looking to the doctor.

“There are other marks on his wrists, in various stages of healing. He’s been doing this for a while. None of these are marks indicating suicide, but night’s are worrying.”

“Because they wouldn’t stop bleeding?”

“They were slow to stop because your friend is drunk and dehydrated.”

Treville turns to Athos and Porthos. “What’s been going on?”

“He was talking to us, trusting us, or so we thought,” Porthos says, confused and frustrated.

“His files show he’s not seeing a psychiatrist,” the doctor questions.

“He keeps rejecting them. I’m sure your files show he has a rather long list of illnesses,” Treville says. “It’s made finding the right one hard.”

“Well, he’s going to have to find one. I’m placing him on a three day hold and he’ll have to talk with one of our psychiatrists.”

They nod. There’s no point in arguing. In many ways, they saw this coming.

They wait with Aramis in the ER and then in the room he’s assigned. He wakes fully a couple days after but he doesn’t talk. Instead, he rolls over and goes back to sleep. The psychiatrist comes in a few times and attempts to talk to him and when he refuses, his stay is lengthened.

By the eighth day, he’s stronger. He didn’t need a transfusion but he still looks pale and doesn’t bother getting out of bed. As much as Athos, Porthos, and Treville would like to stay with him all day, his sour mood and their own jobs make it impossible. Instead, they alternate hospital duty.

Lunch time on day eight is Athos’ turn. He walks into the room to see a combative Aramis. A couple of male nurses stand on either side holding him down and putting soft restraints on his arms and legs as he continues to fight and yell at them.

“What happened,” Athos asks the psychiatrist.

“I tried talking with him again and when he refused, I told him his stay was lengthened again. He grew angry, tried to rip out his stitches,” she explains. “I know this looks harsh, but it’s for his own safety.”

“He’s not a danger,” Athos says, rather weakly.

“To others, no. But to himself, he is. We may need to look at a treatment facility.”

“No,” Athos says quickly. “No, not that.” He pauses for a moment. “Let me try talking to him. I have some experience with this sort of thing.”

“You studied psychology?”

“No. Personal experience,” he says, giving a slight, wry smile and then goes into the room. The nurses are done and Aramis seems to have figured out that his range of motion has been limited severely. The fight is gone from him and he lays on the bed, avoiding all glances.

When the nurses leave, Athos moves a chair close to Aramis, on the side where Aramis is facing. Not surprisingly, the man turns his head in the other direction.

“Do you want to die, Aramis,” Athos asks him bluntly.

Aramis doesn’t respond.

“It’s a simple question, Aramis. Do you want to die?”

Still no response.

“You know that you’re going to be kept here until you start responding. And they’re talking about something more long term, like a treatment facility,” Athos says. “If you think this is restrictive, then you’ll lose any remaining freedom there. Trust me. Even the nice ones are depressing and dull. Treatment will be forced on you, is that what you want?”

This time Aramis turns his head to look at Athos.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were feeling so low? We want to help you but we thought everything was fine.”

Aramis’ face scrunches up and he tries to move his hands to cover his face, but they’re caught in the restraints. Athos thinks about letting one hand go, but he needs Aramis to confront this. Not hide away. He knows the younger man would do worse in a treatment facility.

“We’re your friends, Aramis. Your family. Families depend on each other to keep going. They talk to each other when something is wrong so we can help. Why Aramis?”

“I don’t know,” Aramis says quietly, voice raspy with disuse. Athos helps him drink some water.

“Do you not trust us? Did we do something wrong?”

Aramis shakes his head.

“Words, ‘Mis, please.” He doesn’t like forcing the man like this, but he wants to keep him talking.

“No.” Aramis doesn’t fight him.

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Aramis repeats, tears freely flowing now. Athos stands and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. He grabs one of Aramis’ hands in his own.

“What’s been going on?”

“I don’t know.” Aramis shakes his head lightly.

“You know. Tell me.”

“It’s… It…” Aramis trails off, unable to voice his problem.

“You can tell me. We’ve had this talk before. I don’t have all the same illnesses as you, but I understand depression. I know it’s erratic, cloying nature. Talk to me, ‘Mis.”

Aramis pauses. “Everything,” he says in a rush.

“Everything?”

“Everything.” Aramis is calming some.

“What do you mean?”

“The nightmares, the flashbacks, the panic attacks, the PTSD, the anxiety, the depression, work, life. Everything.”

“That is everything, from the sounds of it,” Athos says quietly.

“I didn’t mean to start but it helped. And then I couldn’t stop.”

“What about the other night?”

“That was an accident.” Aramis looks up, away from Athos’ gaze.

“That’s quite an accident.” Athos raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean for it to be this bad.” Aramis looks back at Athos and he can see the sincerity in the young man’s eyes.

“But the fact is, it is this bad. But if you had talked with us, we could’ve helped you. Instead of bottling everything up until you think the only solution is hurting yourself, talk to us. We won’t understand always and we may not have a solution but we will listen as long as it takes. You’re not alone, but you have to want the help.”

“It’s not easy, Athos.”

“Oh, I know it’s not. It took me years to finally tell my parents but once I did it was better. Family helps family. That’s how it works.”

“I know, I know.”

Athos knows they’re battling against deep seated trust issues. Friends had previously made such family pledges to him and abandoned him when Aramis needed them the most.

“How… how do I know this is real,” Aramis asks quietly.

“Is there something I can do to prove it to you easily?”

Aramis pauses to think. “No.” He shakes his head, looking away.

“Words are just that, ‘Mis. Words. You’re going to have to trust us.”

“And if you abandon me?”

“I won’t. Porthos won’t. Treville won’t.”

Aramis hesitates.

“It’s a big leap of faith, ‘Mis. And you have to decide if you’re going to make it. But I can tell you, it’s worth it. Porthos and I had to do the same with each other and I’ve never regretted it.”

Athos lets Aramis think in silence but he doesn’t move from the bed and he keeps his gentle grip on Aramis’ hand.

“It was just like that,” d’Artagnan asks, looking at Aramis.

“Not quite,” Aramis says. “Trust is easily broken but hard to establish. It took time but I’ve come to trust them with my life and I don’t regret it.” Aramis looks at Porthos and Athos.

“And now, you have to make that decision,” Athos says.

“We’re not going to force you and if you can’t trust all of us right away, that’s fine,” Porthos says.

“But find one of us to place that trust in because holding everything in like you have been, it’s not healthy. You have to get it out before it comes out in a way you don’t want,” Aramis adds.

d’Artagnan nods. He understands them. While he doesn’t have the emotional baggage that these men have, coming from a small town where he knew everyone, extending trust to strangers who he’s known for a few months isn’t easy. But perhaps he can try with Aramis first, the man did save him from being mugged after all.


	31. Things Come in Three's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (prompt: tucked in) October doesn't end so well for Aramis. Fortunately, his brothers are there to help him. (modernAU)

He wakes bent over in bed as his stomach churns and aches. Amidst the nausea, he can’t recall anything unusual about last night. Nothing he ate or how he felt was out of the norm that might give cause. As the pain grows, he breaks out in a sweat and worry sets in about how he’s getting to the bathroom before he loses his dinner here on his bed or on the rug. He forces himself into a mostly upright position. His feet touch the rug as he sits hunched over. A glance up shows the sun still hasn’t risen, but then it’s getting later in the fall and soon it will be time for daylight savings to end. So it might be later in the morning than he thinks for all he knows.

He groans lowly, gripping a hand into the sheets on the bed as a wave of pain hits. When it dissipates he wills himself to his feet, a hand on the bed for support as he shuffles along, following the shape of the bed. Then there is the gap between the bed and the door. At different times when he’s sprained an ankle or knee or broken a leg he’s managed to hobble when he doesn’t feel like grabbing crutches to go next door to the bathroom, but now it feels like a chasm.

As the churning grows, he realizes he has to just do it. And so, he shuffles, slowly. Some way between the two points, he trips and falls against the door. The pain from colliding, shoulder first with the door and then landing flat on his stomach ends his struggle with his stomach.

Somehow one of his brothers pushes in the door and keeps him from lying face down in his own vomit. They keep holding him, rubbing hand on his back until he is spent. His throat is raw and his stomach aches. Most of the last few minutes were dry heaves. He rolls back, a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to rest his head in someone’s lap.

“How’re you feeling, ‘Mis,” Porthos asks. Even half unconscious, he could pick out that deep, comforting rumble.

“Better,” he says, tired and weak.

Porthos raises an eyebrow.

“Really. I don’t know what it was, but I feel better now.” Aramis tries to put as much energy in his voice as he can as proof.

“Right.” Porthos doesn’t believe him. He knows Aramis too well. “You think you’re going to vomit again?”

“No.” Aramis shakes his head.

“Okay then, let’s get you up and to Athos. You can sleep the rest of the night in there.”

“Thought it was morning.”

“It is, but it’s 3am. We still have a few hours to go before we need to be up. I’ll get you to Athos’ and then come back to clean this up.”

“I can get it.” Aramis moves to get up, but his arms give way under him.

“Just let us help you, ‘Mis.”

Aramis sighs and nods. Porthos removes his vomit stained shirt and grabs another, a well-worn sweater that Aramis is glad to have on. It’s rather chilly, he thinks. He does what he can to help Porthos get him to his feet but he knows the older man does most of the work. He thinks he shuffles down the hall way, but Porthos more carries him, knocking with a free hand on Athos’ door and calling out for the man.

Inside, there’s a grumble and then shuffling.

“What,” Athos grumbles as he opens the door.

“Aramis is sick. Do you mind if he stays the rest of the night with you? I need to clean up his room,” Porthos says.

“Bad?” Athos is instantly alert, already taking Aramis from Porthos. The younger man is quickly fading but mutters some retort that they’re sure is about his lack of illness.

“Just vomit. He says he feels better but with a bathroom in your room, he’ll be better off with you if he gets sick again and he likes when you take care of him when he’s sick.”

Athos nods. “Do you need help cleaning up?”

“No. If I do, I’ll get d’Artagnan. Just take care of ‘Mis.”

Athos takes Aramis to his bed, which has more than enough room for the two men. Aramis is nearly asleep when he sets him on the bed and nudges him to settle in. When he sees Aramis shimmie deep into the thin blanket Athos has on the bed, he grabs a couple more thicker blankets from the closet and lays them over the man. He then settles into the other side of the bed, dozing lightly for the rest of the night.

The rest of the night passes uneventfully with Aramis is a deep sleep despite a few restless moments that shift Athos into wakefulness. When morning comes, he sends Aramis to shower, carefully, in his bathroom while he catches another few minutes of sleep. The others had insisted that he take the master bedroom, which had an en suite bathroom, because he did purchase the house and let them live there rent free. In truth, he’d secretly put the house in their names as well, in case something happened to him.

After finally rising, showering, and dressing for the day, Athos comes downstairs to a familiar argument.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Aramis says, eating a bowl of oatmeal. Athos’d hoped for something more than oatmeal, but considering Aramis’ sickness during the night, a lighter breakfast was in order. And the only way to get Aramis to actually eat it was for it to be the meal for them all. Perhaps, he’d grab a donut when he made their coffee run today.

“You didn’t see how sick you were last night,” Porthos says over his own bowl.

“No, I felt it and I’m fine now.”

Athos walks next to Aramis and unceremoniously puts a hand on the man’s forehead.

“No fever,” Athos announces.

“That’s because I’m not sick.”

“Then what was last night,” Porthos asks.

“I don’t know but it’s out of my system and I’m fine to work today.”

Porthos huffs but doesn’t say anything more. Aramis looks to Athos.

“He did sleep through the rest of the night, Porthos,” Athos says.

“I don’t know. I don’t want you getting in there and getting sick again.”

“I feel fine and I’ll let you know the moment I don’t,” Aramis says with a hopeful smile.

“Anyone who believes that, stand on your head,” Porthos says dryly.

Aramis glares at him but doesn’t say anything more.

They finish their breakfast, with d’Artagnan getting his usual time warning from Athos. For being a farm boy, the young man had certain gotten out of the early morning habits quickly. Everything goes smoothly, normally. They catch their usual train, check in with Treville, and settle into work. Then Aramis coughs at his desk.

Porthos looks at him.

“I’m fine,” Aramis hisses. Porthos goes back to his work until Aramis coughs again.

“Don’t say it,” Porthos warns.

“It’s just a couple coughs.”

“Do you know the kind of luck you have? There’s no rabbit foot big enough to help you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Aramis says, sinking back in his chair.

“I think it’s a good time for coffee,” Athos says, standing. “Aramis, you want to come with?”

“Yes,” Aramis says readily, standing so quickly his chair nearly topples backwards.

“Bundle up. There’s a cold front coming in,” Porthos says.

“I’ll be fine. It’s not a long walk,” Aramis retorts, irritation clear.

“The usual?” Athos looks at Porthos and d’Artagnan, who nod.

The trip to the coffee shop is brisk with a chilly wind, but it’s not far. Aramis is surprisingly quiet, but Athos figures that is more his irritation with Porthos. There are more coughs, but Athos isn’t the worrier that Porthos is. In fact, it’s only on the way back, a block and a half from the station that he gets truly concerned. That’s when Aramis can’t stop coughing for long.

“Ath…” he croaks out between coughs.

“Let’s get you back. We’re just a few minutes away. Do you think you can make it?”

Aramis nods, coughing still. Athos puts a hand on his shoulders, both to support the man and hurry him along. The sooner they can get him out of this chilly weather, the better.

When they get back to the station, he sets the coffee on d’Artagnan’s desk and ushers Aramis to his chair. The man bends over, coughing.

“What happened,” d’Artagnan asks. Porthos is already next to Aramis, pulling his jacket off.

“It must’ve been too cold out there. He can’t stop coughing,” Athos explains. He’s kneeling down in front of the man, trying to calm him as he struggles to breathe.

“Is that,” d’Artagnan starts, looking at Athos and Porthos.

“Yeah.” Porthos sighs.

“Where’s his inhaler,” Athos asks.

“He’s beyond that.” Treville interrupts their search. “Get him in here. I’ve already got the nebulizer set up.”

Wordlessly, Athos and Porthos get Aramis to his feet and help him into Treville’s office, depositing him on the couch where Treville has stacked the pillows on one side to prop the young man up. Treville shuts the door and gets Aramis set up with the device and sits with him as the medicine works on his lungs, gradually calming the coughs.

The other three have positioned themselves nearby, waiting for Aramis’ breathing to settle. No matter how often he’s seen this, Porthos thinks, it’s no easier watching and waiting for the medicine to work, hoping that it’s enough. There have been a few attacks bad enough to land Aramis in the ER.

As the breathing comes easier, Aramis starts to relax. He closes his eyes, not to sleep, just to rest. He’s always off-kilter after these treatments. An annoying mixture of the jitters and tiredness. Eventually, Treville takes the pipe from him and shuts of the nebulizer.

“How’re you feeling,” Treville asks.

“Same as always.” Aramis doesn’t feel like pretending. He’s tired and annoyed that a simple walk in the October air set him off. This doesn’t bode well for the coming winter months.

“Rest in here for a while, then you can go back to work. If you’re feeling up to it.” Treville pats him gently on his shoulder before taking the nebulizer to his desk to clean it.

“The rest of you should get back to work. He’ll be fine in here,” Treville says.

“I’m glad you had that,” Porthos says.

“I like to be prepared.” Treville remembers the first few asthma attacks when they didn’t have the nebulizer. As much as he panicked, he knew it was worse for Aramis and then came the ER visits which inevitably triggered panic attacks. Going through that a few times unprepared was enough to make him sure he was always ready.

“I’ll keep an eye on him. Get back to work,” he says again and this time they shuffle out.

Aramis rests for an hour, dozing lightly. Before he can leave, Treville has him take a few deep breaths. When he doesn’t cough, Treville lets him go.

“Be careful, Aramis,” he says as the man leaves.

“What could happen? I’m staying in the office,” Aramis says with a tired smile. The rest did him some good but he needs a good night’s sleep.

“Those aren’t good words to say around here, Aramis,” Treville warns lightly.

“I know, I know. I’ll be careful. I’ll even let d’Artagnan do my paper work so I don’t get any paper cuts,” Aramis says loudly enough for their youngest team member to hear.

“I have enough of my own without your mile-high stack,” d’Artagnan retorts.

“Get to work, the both of you,” Treville yells out the door before Aramis shuts it.

Aramis stays in at lunchtime, not willing to tempt fate again. He doesn’t feel much like eating, but he does. Still fighting off the chill from his earlier trip outside, he opts for a toasted club sandwich and chicken and rice soup. He eats half of each and counts that as a victory considering he didn’t want to eat. Truly, it’s the warmth of the food that tempts him more than anything. And it does warm him, for a bit.

As the afternoon wears on, the chill sets back in. He doesn’t want to put his jacket on because then Porthos will say something. He opts for tea instead, warming his hands on the mug as he sips the hot beverage.

It’s somewhere around 3pm when he can’t deny it anymore. He is alternatively chilled then too hot, his head aches as do his bones, his throat is dry, and there’s an annoying tickle in his throat that he keeps soothing with sips of water. He should’ve known, he thinks, things always come in threes.

“P’thos,” he mumbles quietly. He clears his throat.

“’Mis?” Porthos doesn’t bother to look up, busy in his work.

“I think I need to go home,” Aramis says weakly.

“Okay.”

“I don’t feel well.” Aramis puts his head on his desk, unable to keep it up any longer, resting it on his folded arms.

There’s a long pause.

“Aramis, what’s wrong,” Porthos asks, moving quickly to Aramis.

“I told you. I’m sick. I don’t feel good.” He doesn’t bother to look up. Porthos puts a hand on the back of the man’s neck and finds it rather warm.

“You do have a fever. What else?” He kneels down next to Aramis. d’Artagnan and Athos have stopped working and are watching, listening.

“Headache, sore throat, aches.” Aramis coughs a couple times. “Coughing.”

“Nausea?”

“Some but not bad.”

“Athos?”

“I’ll let Treville know and then get ready to take him home,” Athos says. He’s been in the process of closing down his work already.

“I think you’re going to need some help,” Porthos says, observing Aramis.

Athos nods and goes to let Treville know.

“Decide who you want to take with you,” Treville tells Athos, looking at Aramis, who uncharacteristically, hasn’t moved his head from the desk. Porthos nudges Aramis to his feet, holding on when he sways.

“You alright,” Porthos asks.

“Dizzy.” Aramis leans against Porthos, keeping his eyes closed and head down.

“Can you make it to the train,” Athos asks.

“Yes,” Aramis says quietly. “Won’t break any records, but I’ll get there.” He reaches for his jacket, but d’Artagnan beats him to it. The younger man works with Porthos to get the jacket on Aramis without jostling the man too much.

“The three of you better take him home,” Treville says, taking in the sight of Aramis, pale, leaning against Porthos, fever-red cheeks, and eyes shut. It’s going to take all three of them to get him to the train.

Porthos sets him back on his chair and goes to clean up his work for the day. d’Artagnan does the same while Treville and Athos take care of Aramis’ work.

Before they leave, they further bundle up Aramis, pulling from their own, warmer winter gear. Porthos gives him his gloves, d’Artagnan pulls his woolen cap over his head, and Athos wraps his scarf around his neck and mouth.

“Let me know how he’s doing,” Treville says as he watches them leave.

It does take all three of them to coax Aramis to move and keep him upright on the trip to the station. They make it though it takes twice as long and Aramis is ready to collapse on the nearest bench at the end. They arrive ten minutes after their train has left meaning they will have to wait nearly a half hour for the next.

Porthos goes to get warm drinks for them, tea for Aramis and coffee for the rest as d’Artagnan and Athos sit on either side of Aramis, keeping him both up right and aware that they are there. A sick Aramis is more prone to flashbacks and panic attacks, neither of which are needed right now.

Aramis has to be coaxed initially into drinking the tea, but it eventually revives him enough that he sips on it without further coddling. Porthos picks him up another cup of tea before they board the train.

It’s just after five when they get off the train and much later when they walk through the door of their home.

“I don’t want to go to bed,” Aramis says quietly. He’s sat on the bench at the front door, still bundled up while the others remove their shoes and jackets. It’s not quite a whine but it gets Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan to look at each other.

“How’s the den,” Athos suggests.

“That works.” Aramis nods tiredly.

“d’Artagnan, would you run up and get his pillows and blankets,” Athos says.

“And some sweats,” Porthos says. “You’re going to want out of those clothes,” he adds, looking at Aramis.

“I don’t want to think about moving,” Aramis says, leaning against the wall.

“Let us help you, then.”

Aramis nods.

That’s enough for Athos and Porthos to start to get the winter clothes and shoes off Aramis. d’Artagnan comes back first with the sweats. Athos and Porthos help Aramis to the downstairs bathroom.

“Do you want help changing,” Athos asks.

“I think I got it,” Aramis says, sitting on the toilet lid.

“We’ll be just outside.” Athos hands him the sweats and closes off the door so he can have some privacy. It takes longer than normal, but Aramis does get changed himself and opens the door. Athos follows him to the den, staying close for Aramis’ dizzy spells. d’Artagnan has the couch already set up. The two help Aramis to get comfortable, pulling up the blankets, including Aramis’ favorite one.

“Well, you’re all tucked in there,” Porthos says, walking in with their medical kit in hand. “Before you doze off, let’s see where your fever’s at.” Porthos pulls out the ear thermometer. “102.3,” he reads off after waiting for the device to beep.

“Ibuprofen,” d’Artagnan holds out a couple pills and a glass of water. He helps Aramis to sit up enough to take the medicine.

“Get some rest now, ‘Mis,” Porthos says. “Hopefully, you’ll be over this quickly.” They each settle in the den, near Aramis. Porthos sits on the couch, pulling Aramis’ feet into his lap. Athos finds a comfortable spot leaning against the couch near Aramis’ head and d’Artagnan moves the armchair a little closer.

In their comforting presence, Aramis slips off into a peaceful sleep. Athos sends a quick text to Treville, letting him know that Aramis is resting.

“You know,” Porthos says quietly, breaking the silence in the room, “he’s had quite the month. I’m not surprised he got so sick suddenly.”

“It has been a rather bad month for him,” Athos comments.

“Yeah, it was like one thing after another kept hitting him,” d’Artagnan adds.

“He was just too worn down to fight this off,” Porthos says.

“He’ll be fine. In a few days, he’ll be fighting us to go do things,” Athos says.

“I know. I was just thinking how rough a month he’s had and how draining it’s been on him.”

“Maybe November will be better for him,” d’Artagnan suggests.

“We can only hope,” Athos says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all of them. A full month of prompts (I'd love to do this again, maybe during December.). It was a fun month for me and busy. I wrote nearly 50,000 words, which is more than I've ever written in a month and expanded a universe I had no intentions of developing further. It's meant that the story the all of these modernAU fics are based on has to be majorly edited to make it work now. So, if you've enjoyed the modern setting, there's more to come. I have a long fic (about 70,000 words) and a number of smaller fics that are in the works. 
> 
> As a further note about the month of prompts, I thought I would share my two extra challenges set for myself as I was writing. One, these stories couldn't involve violence. They could be in the aftermath of violence, but violent acts themselves couldn't propel the action. The start of October was a violent month where I live and I didn't want to write about violence. Two, the stories had to be new, meaning non-cliched or take a different look. It meant looking at idioms, alternate definitions, and seeing things metaphorically. This philosophy is something I normally consider in my original writing, but I've never applied it to my fan fiction.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed the stories as much as I've enjoyed writing them.


End file.
